“What I find fault with is this,” continued Miss Dunstable, “that we expect clergymen to do their duty, and don’t give them a sufficient income--give them hardly any income at all. Is it not a scandal, that an educated gentleman with a family should be made to work half his life, and perhaps the whole, for a pittance of seventy pounds a year?” Mark said that it was a scandal, and thought of Mr. Evan Jones and his daughter;--and thought also of his own worth, and his own house, and his own nine hundred a year. “And yet you clergymen are so proud--aristocratic would be the genteel word, I know--that you won’t take the money of common, ordinary poor people. You must be paid from land and endowments, from tithe and church property. You can’t bring yourself to work for what you earn, as lawyers and doctors do. It is better that curates should starve than undergo such ignominy as that.” “It is a long subject, Miss Dunstable.” “A very long one; and that means that I am not to say any more about it.” “I did not mean that exactly.” “Oh! but you did though, Mr. Robarts. And I can take a hint of that kind when I get it. You clergymen like to keep those long subjects for your sermons, when no one can answer you. Now if I have a longing heart’s desire for anything at all in this world, it is to be able to get up into a pulpit, and preach a sermon.” “You can’t conceive how soon that appetite would pall upon you, after its first indulgence.” “That would depend upon whether I could get people to listen to me. It does not pall upon Mr. Spurgeon, I suppose.” Then her attention was called away by some question from Mr. Sowerby, and Mark Robarts found himself bound to address his conversation to Miss Proudie. Miss Proudie, however, was not thankful, and gave him little but monosyllables for his pains. “Of course you know Harold Smith is going to give us a lecture about these islanders,” Mr. Sowerby said to him, as they sat round the fire over their wine after dinner. Mark said that he had been so informed, and should be delighted to be one of the listeners. “You are bound to do that, as he is going to listen to you the day afterwards--or, at any rate, to pretend to do so, which is as much as you will do for him. It’ll be a terrible bore--the lecture I mean, not the sermon.” And he spoke very low into his friend’s ear. “Fancy having to drive ten miles after dusk, and ten miles back, to hear Harold Smith talk for two hours about Borneo! One must do it, you know.” “I daresay it will be very interesting.” “My dear fellow, you haven’t undergone so many of these things as I have. But he’s right to do it. It’s his line of life; and when a man begins a thing he ought to go on with it. Where’s Lufton all this time?” “In Scotland, when I last heard from him; but he’s probably at Melton now.”