_Frimmely_ (_the Prosaic_). Martyr!... Well, I wouldn't mind being a martyr if I'd been brought up to it. I don't see why you should waste sentiment on Father Cuthbert or anybody else whose profession it is. (_Repeating incisively_) It's his profession, his business, to be uncomfortable, and, finis coronat opus, martyrdom signifies in his line, success. (_We are silent and he continues further to instruct us._) You Catholics (_to the Signor_), you know, have colleges of Missioners in training; I've seen 'em. As in a Law College there would be portraits of Chief Justices and celebrated Q.C.'s in the costumes of their rank, so in a Missioners' College you have pictures of Celebrated Martyrs in the peculiar Costumes of their particular torments. It's a regular business, with _you_ I mean, not so much with Protestants. We do it more comfortably. With us it's rather a question of a foreign appointment, with a good income. _The Signor._ Vell--(_considering_). I am ongry. Let us go an' eat some-sing. [Illustration: ÊTRE MARTYR .... SON MÉTIER.] CHAPTER XX. A SUNDAY CONVERSATION. _Miss Adelaide_ (_warming her toes on the fender before sitting down to luncheon_). Oh, how cold it was in Church. _Captain Byrton._ Wasn't it. Upon my word if they expect people to go, they ought to keep the place warm. _Chilvern._ It was so cold I couldn't go to sleep during the sermon (_knives and forks at work_). _Cazell._ It wasn't such a very bad sermon. Pickles, please! Thanks. _Myself_ (_showing some interest_). Who preached? _Mrs. Frimmely._ I don't know his name. He wasn't here last Sunday. _Boodels_ (_whose headache has entirely disappeared_). Ah, the Rector perhaps. There are two Churches here, and he has two Curates. _Miss Bella_ (_frowningly_). He preached in black. _Milburd._ It _is_ the Rector. It's what they call 'Low Sunday' here. _Chilvern._ What's that? _Madame._ Not Low Sunday with us; that is after Easter Day. _Medford_ (_explaining_). Ah yes, Boodels refers to the tone of their Churchmanship. The Rector is Broad Church, Mr. Marveloe, the senior Curate, is High Church, and Mr. Alpely, the junior Curate, is Low. This just suits the parishioners, and they take it turn and turn about at the two Churches, the Rector doing duty at both, accommodating himself to either view as the case may be. One Sunday they're high, another they're low, and the other Church is _vice versâ_. _Miss Adelaide._ To-day it was the duett of parson and clerk. _Miss Bella._ Oh, horrid! I'd rather stop at home than hear that. Why at S. Phillips at home we have vestments, and incense, and everything is done so well. _Miss Medford_ (_quietly_). Well, I'd just as soon go to one as another. May I trouble you for the salt, Signor Regniati? _Signor._ My Jo! If zey do not preach I vould go-- _Madame_ (_severely_). Mr. Regniati, hand the salt. _Mrs. Frimmely._ What an absurd cloak that Mrs. Tringmer had.