Yet this was the case, and although, as each of us remarked, the expression of the other was unwontedly grave, it was a relief to us both to learn that neither of us had spent a bad, or even indifferent, night. Considering the circumstances, indeed, we had slept remarkably well, and in view of the tremendous task that now certainly awaited us, each of us was scrupulous to fortify his person with as large and nourishing a meal as possible. As we sang the morning hymn, too, I was glad to perceive that my father’s voice was in exceptional condition, while the sunshine and soft air augured well for a particularly large congregation. “The more, the better,” said my father, and he even went so far as to permit the attendance of my mother, thereby excusing her from her usual task of preparing our midday meal or dinner. “We’ll have something cold,” he said, “middle day, and she shall give us a good hot meal after evening service.” With myself on his right, then, and my mother on his left, we left the house at 10.45, and I have never, I think, seen my father so meticulously dressed as on this stern but necessary occasion. Wearing his longest frock-coat, a double-breasted gentian waistcoat, faultlessly creased trousers, and the glossiest of brown boots, his collar was encircled with a cream-coloured velvet tie, held in position by a single Cape garnet. By a happy circumstance, too, his bowler hat had only been purchased the week before; and indeed, as Simeon whispered to me, it might rather have been that of some French aristocrat mounting the tumbril than of a Xtian sidesman of the United Kingdom on his way to denounce a lectern. Nor did he hesitate to lift it when we met Mr. and Mrs. Carkeek, accompanied by Cosmo and Corkran, although I have seen nothing more distant than the inclination of the head with which he signified consciousness of their presence. As Simeon said to me, “Your father may be a Xtian, but he never forgets that he’s a gentleman.” We were now on the brink, however, of the church porch—a couple of steps and the effigy would be in sight—and deeply as we had impressed upon each other the necessity for self-command, I could not help staggering a little and leaning against Simeon. My father staggered too, leaning against Mr. Balfour Whey, while my mother staggered against Mrs. Meatson, the obliging wife of Mr. Meatson, the editor of the parish magazine. Then with a supreme effort we recovered our equilibria, and in the next moment—albeit at a distance—we were facing an image that, for malignant effrontery, was surely unparalleled in Church history.