he proper point
of view. Suppose, for instance, that our hypothetical clergyman were to
take for his text----"

I laid down the last card in the pack on my own pile and looked
triumphantly at Dodds. I had, at all events, not made a misdeal. Dodds
put his hand down on his cards with a bang. He has large red hands,
which swell out between the knuckles and at the wrists. I saw by the
way his fingers were spread on the table that he was going to speak
strongly. I recollected then, when it was too late, that Dodds is an
advanced Radical and absolutely hates the idea of imperialism. I tried
to diminish his wrath by slipping in an apologetic explanation before he
found words to express his feelings.

"The clergyman I mean," I said, "isn't--he's purely imaginary, but if
he had any real existence he wouldn't belong to your church. He'd be a
bishop."

"He'd better," said Dodds grimly.

I felt so much depressed that I declared spades at once. I gathered
from the tone in which he spoke that if the clergyman who preached
imperialism came within the jurisdiction of Dodds, or for the matter
of that of Mrs. Dodds, it would be the worse for him. By far his
best chance of a peaceful life was to be a bishop and not to live in
Scotland. This was a great deal worse than Lalage's way of treating him.
She merely sported, pursuing him with gay ridicule, mangling his pet
quotations, smiling at his swelling rotundities. Dodds would have sent
him to the stake without an opportunity for recantation.

I lost altogether seven shillings during the evening, which represents
a considerable run of bad luck, for we never played for more than a
shilling for each hundred points. Mrs. Dodds, of course, lost the
same amount. I tried to make it up to her next day by sending her,
anonymously, six pairs of gloves. She must have known that they came
from me for she was very gracious and friendly next evening. But for a
long time afterward Dodds used to annoy her by proposing to talk about
bishops and infant schools whenever she happened to be my partner.

CHAPTER VIII

A week passed without my hearing anything from home about Lalage's
_Gazette_. My mother's weekly letter--she wrote regularly every Sunday
afternoon--contained nothing but the usual chronicle of minor events. I
had no other regular correspondent. The Archdeacon had written me eleven
letters since I left home, all of them dealing with church finance and
asking for subscriptions. Canon