Whether, intentionally or not, Mr. Luxmare managed to convey the impression that, in his opinion, the curate, while pretending to save souls with one hand, was doing his best to destroy them with the other, and that, in that singular course of procedure, he was being aided and abetted by the vicar. Mr. Harding had strong forebodings that the trouble, so far from being ended, was only just beginning. Those forebodings became still stronger when, scarcely an hour after Mr. Luxmare had left him, Mrs. Harding, entering the study like a passable imitation of a hurricane, laid a printed sheet in front of her husband with the air almost of a Jove hurling thunderbolts from the skies. "Mr. Harding, have you seen that paper?" It was the unescapable _Skittles_. The vicar groaned in spirit. He regarded it with weary eyes. "A copy of it now and then, my dear." "I have just discovered its existence with feelings of horror. That such a thing should be permitted to be is a national disgrace. Mr. Harding, you will be astounded to learn that the curate of Exdale is one of its chief contributors. "Scarcely, I think, one of its chief contributors." Mrs. Harding struck an attitude. "Is it possible that you are already aware that your ostensible colleague in the great task of snatching souls from the burning has all the time been doing Satan's work?" "My dear!--really!" "You know very well that I have objected to Mr. Plumber from the first. I have suspected the man. Now that my suspicions are more than verified, it is certain that he must go. The question is, when? Of course, before next Sunday." "You move too fast, Sophia." "In such a matter as this it is impossible to move too fast. Read that." Turning over a page of the paper, Mrs. Harding pointed to a "copy of verses." "Thank you, my dear, but, if you will permit me, I prefer to remain excused. I have no taste for that species of literature just now." "So I should imagine--either now or ever! The shameful and shameless rubbish has been written by your curate. I am told that it has been cut out and framed, and that it at present hangs in the taproom of 'The Pig and Whistle,' with these words scrawled beneath it: 'The Curate's Latest! Real Jam!' Is that the sort of handle which you wish to offer to the scoffers? I shall not leave this room until you promise me that before next Sunday Exdale Parish Church shall have seen the last of him." He did not promise that, but he promised something--with his fatal facility for promising. He promised that a meeting should be held at the vicarage before the following Sunday. That Mr. Plumber, the churchwardens, and the sidesmen should be invited to attend. That certain questions should be put to the curate. That he should be asked what he had to say for himself. And, although the vicar did not distinctly promise, in so many words, that the sense of the meeting should then be allowed to decide his fate, the lady certainly inferred as much.