‘With all deference to your theological acumen, of which I have the highest opinion, Mr Lockstable, I think you are making a slight confusion between the Athanasian Creed and Ten Thousand a Year. Unless I err—which is possible—the respectable trio you name belong to the novel, not to the Creed.’
‘Aw—yes, that’s correct, Bristley,’ drawled the invocator. ‘I wasn’t thinking of creeds; in fact, I didn’t quite hear what you were all saying. Miss Dimpleton, I apologise. Sorry to have been at cross purposes; but surely you didn’t think I meant to imply that Mr Oily Gammon had anything to do with your creed? Should be awfully sorry.’
‘You only put your foot in it more the further you go, Lockstable; you’d better not apologise,’ laughed the vicar.
Rose Dimpleton gazed at him in stern silence.
‘No; but really I hope you will forgive my awkwardness, Miss Dimpleton. On your own principles as a Christian, you should,’ looking at her piteously.
Rose relented, smiling sweetly.
‘So your principles are zot those of a Christian, then? Well, say no more about it, Mr Lockstable. I see you can’t help it, and I don’t believe you mean any harm.’
‘I don’t indeed,’ he replied; ‘and in any case I should never mean any to you, I feel so uncomfortable when you are angry with me.’
‘I’m not at all angry now,’ she said gently.
‘Tell you what,’ Miss Blemmyketts half whispered to Lesbia, ‘I guess friend Rose’s forgiveness is getting a little more than Christian.’
‘No?’ exclaimed Athelstan. ‘Not angry at all! Bravo! Then I feel all jolly again, as jolly, sir, as that fellow Eno, whom his daughter Lottie translated into a pillar of Fruit
