At the end of the Lesson, during the singing of the canticle, she noticed that the Squire was “ticking off” the congregation, making notes of absentees. Woe betide them if no reasonable excuse were proffered! He might well congratulate himself upon his people. The farmers and their families were conspicuous. Behind them sat the labourers, bovine, ruddy, with well-lined stomachs. The Pomfret servants filled two pews. Since the exposition of eugenics in Fishpingle’s room, Alfred had deemed it discreet not to sing out of the same hymn-book with Prudence. He sat with the under-servants, but wisely apart from the stillroom maid. Everybody looked smugly pious and respectable. The sermon surpassed Margot’s expectation. Hamlin spoke extempore, disdaining notes, talking to his flock simply, in words easily to be understood by a child. His thin, capable hands rested upon an ancient cushion of red brocade. This cushion was all that was left of the three-decker pulpit removed when Hamlin first came to Nether-Applewhite. Long ago, in the Squire’s boyhood, old Mr. Pomfret, in a moment of excitement, had pushed the cushion from him. It fell upon the sexton’s head. The sexton replaced it, interrupting the flow of the Parson’s discourse. Whereupon the Parson hurled the cushion into the aisle, saying loudly: “Do you suppose, Abel Whitehorn, that I can’t preach without a cushion?” Margot recalled this story, one of the Squire’s time-ripened anecdotes, as her eyes rested upon the nervous hands upon the same cushion. Hamlin’s hands betrayed his feelings. His theme concerned itself with cleanliness. He took the text from Zechariah: “Behold, I have caused thine iniquity to pass from thee, and I will clothe thee with change of raiment.” Hamlin was at his best when he dealt with matters of common interest to his parishioners. At his worst, like most parsons, when he expounded dogma and doctrine. Margot perceived that the Squire was composing himself to enjoy the sermon. Cleanliness was next to godliness in his opinion. Hamlin began with soap and water. Members of the congregation, too racy of the soil, stirred uneasily in their seats. Those who were fresh from the Saturday night tub smirked complacently. From bodies, the Parson moved easily to houses, and thence to the soil, much to the interest and gratification of Bonsor and the Squire. Then he paused. When he spoke again, his tone had deepened. He leaned forward, sweeping the church with his keen glance. “_Are your minds clean?_” He went on temperately, delicately, but unmistakably. The children listened to every word. “_The Divine Spirit cannot dwell in an unclean mind._” And then the last injunction. “_The clean mind must be kept clean._” The congregation filed soberly out of church. Joyce marshalled the children. Moxon joined her. The Squire and his party lingered near the yew tree mentioned in Doomsday Book, exchanging greetings with all and sundry. Margot said to Moxon: