He felt the need, in his present excited mood, of some one to speak to, and instead of turning into his own lodgings he passed on to the reading-room, a large, barely furnished room, looking upon the top of the town, and used as a club by the leading townsfolk and a few of the local magnates who lived near. He entered it, and, to his surprise, found the archdeacon seated under the naked gas-burners, interested in the “Times.” The sight filled him with astonishment, for it was seldom the county members used the room after sunset. “Why, Mr. Archdeacon,” he said—his tongue naturally hung loose at the moment, and a _bonhomie_, difficult to assume at another time, came easily to him now—“what in the world brings you here at this hour?” The archdeacon laid down his paper. “Upon my word I think I was half asleep,” he said. “I am in for the ‘Free Foresters’’ supper. I thought the hour was half-past six, and came into town accordingly, whereas I find it is half-past seven. I have been here the best part of three-quarters of an hour killing time.” “But I thought that the rector always said grace for the ‘Free Foresters,’ the curate answered in some surprise. “It has been the custom for them to ask him,” the archdeacon replied cautiously. “By the way you did it last year, did you not?” “Yes, for Mr. Williams. He was confined to his room.” “I thought so. Well, this year these foolish people seem to have taken a fancy not to have the rector, and they came to me. I tried to persuade them to have him, but it was no good. And so,” the archdeacon added, in a lower tone, “I thought it would look less like a slight if I came than if any other clergyman—you, for instance—were the clerical guest.” “To be sure,” said the curate warmly. “It was most thoughtful of you.” The archdeacon hitched his chair a little nearer the fire. He felt the influence of the curate’s sympathy. The latter had said little, but his manner warmed the old gentleman’s heart, and his tongue also grew more loose. “I wonder whether you know,” he said genially, rubbing his hands up and down his knees, which he was gently toasting, and looking benevolently at his companion, “how near you were to having the living, Clode?” “Do you mean Claversham?” replied the curate, experiencing a kind of shock at this reference to the subject so near his heart. “Yes, of course.” “I never thought I had a chance of it!” “You had so good a chance,” responded the archdeacon, nodding his head wisely, “that only one thing stood between you and it.” “May I ask what that was?” the curate rejoined, his heart beating fast. “A promise. The earl had promised his old friend that he should have this living. Lord Dynmore told me so himself, the last time I saw him. That would be nearly a year ago, when poor Williams was already ailing.” “Well, that I supposed to be the case,” Clode answered, his tone one of disappointment. “But I do not quite see how I was affected by it—more, I mean, than others, archdeacon.”