“Mr. Kent,” he said, “you should draw out Mr. Carter concerning his views on amending the liturgy of the Established Church. He has some very advanced ideas on that subject which have attracted much attention at Oxford. One of his interesting suggestions is that radical churchmen should wear the clerical collar back side foremost, as a kind of symbol of their inverted opinions.” The wretched Carter's hand flew to his neck, and he glared across the table in a very unecclesiastical manner. “Really!” said Mr. Kent, “that is most interesting. I had noticed his modification of the customary dress. In what other ways, Mr. Carter, would you amend the ritual?” The unfortunate curate was caught. “Er--hum--well--that is, the Bishop and I both think that the service is too long,” he faltered. “I am in favour of omitting the sermon.” “Hear, hear!” cried Mr. Kent. “It is most refreshing to hear a high churchman make such a confession. And what else do you propose?” “Why--ah--hum--it has always seemed to me that the--thirty-nine articles might--well--be somewhat condensed.” “Bravo indeed, though I fear the Bishop would balk at that,” said his host. The maid, appearing in the dining-room again, whispered to Mrs. Kent. “Philip,” said the latter, “that gas-man is here again, and says he _must_ see the meter. He claims that there is a dangerous leak which should be fixed at once. Perhaps I had better go down to the cellar with him. Your rheumatism--” “My dear Mrs. Kent,” cried the curate, seeing his chance; “do nothing of the sort. It is the privilege of my cloth to take precedence when there is danger of any kind. If any one should be overcome by fumes, the consolations of the church may be needed.” And without waiting for another word, he leaped up and ran from the room. Blair fidgeted in his chair, seeing himself outwitted, but there was nothing he could do. “Pray go on with your supper, Mr. Blair,” urged Kent. “You must overlook anything that seems strange this evening. Everything seems to be widdershins. Perhaps because it is St. Patrick's Day. I do believe that woman in the kitchen is at the bottom of it all. These stuffed eggs are positively uneatable! If I were not crippled with this lumbago I would go down and fire her out of the house.” “Let me do it for you!” cried Blair, half rising from his seat. “Nonsense! I'm not going to sacrifice our good talk on antiquities so easily. I want very much to tell you about the Battle of Wolverhampton. The town was strongly loyalist in the great rebellion; in fact, in 1645 it was the headquarters of Prince Rupert, while Charles the First is said to have stopped at the Blue Boar for a drink--” At this moment came a ring at the front door, and Mr. Kent stopped to listen. They heard a male voice mumbling to the maid, who then came to her mistress to report. “There's a policeman out here, ma'am, to see Mr. Kent.”