When the Orangemen have persuaded Parliament to pass an Act for the inspection of convents I shall not apply for the post of Inspector. Not that I have any fear of a hostile reception. On the contrary: it is because I fear that, inasmuch as I may be by that time somewhat advanced in years, my constitution would not be able to stand a life of profuse hospitality. There was one convent, but I hope reverend mother will never see this page, where I found the Lord Mayoral collations after the annual inspection so perilous that I had to resort to the most discreditable manœuvres to escape. “Bolton Abbey in the olden time” (Landseer) was their model; and fish, flesh, and fowl made the table groan before me, and made me groan after the table. Cruel only to be kind, and inversely. A clerical friend of mine, holding strong Evangelical views, and being annoyed, I suppose, by his school report, took some pains to undermine my character by spreading a rumour that I had played whist at a certain convent with the mother superior, the second in command, and the chaplain. I should have been very glad to do so, and I can quite imagine reverend mother playing a very good game, and coming out with small cards from her long suit when all our trumps were gone. But in sober truth I was not asked. My dear friend, Father Rigidus, was much shocked when I told him of the rumour. It appeared that cards are forbidden to holy women. But surely this would not exclude Patience? It is another instance of the tyranny of man, that he, the man-priest, persuades holy women to regard cards as permissible to him, but wicked for them. I admit that they are forbidden to the clergy by the canons of the Church of England, but I believe Rome is more lenient. And I have known several Anglican transgressors. In this connection a friend tells a story of the great Henry of Exeter, Bishop Phillpotts. He was in residence as Golden Canon of Durham, and in that ancient city was playing an unhallowed rubber. Close by his side was a stray parson, who was telling with some glee how he had buried a Dissenter, or married a divorcee, or what not. Phillpotts turned savagely round on him: “Sir, are you aware that your proceeding was directly contrary to the canons of the Church?” The parson was entirely unabashed: “So it is contrary to the canons,” he retorted, “for you to sit there playing whist _with the ace of trumps in your hand_.” But I am straying from the point, if there ever was one.