“It is reported, my dear,” said Mrs. Mince, as she turned up her veil and tucked her black gloves into a ball—“it is reported that young Strong is to contest the constituency at the next election. Sir Hercules Dimsdale is retiring, dear old fellow! What changes we see as the years pass by!” “Changes for the worse,” said Mrs. Marjoy. “Sir Hercules is such a gentleman; he always asks James to shoot with him twice a year. Young Strong a politician! Why, the cub has no more backbone than a jellyfish. His character would not stand an election.” Mrs. Mince agreed with her usual flabby facility. “There are such peculiar rumors abroad,” she said. “I cannot imagine where they come from. Most strange, Ophelia Strong going away like this. Don’t you think so, my dear?” Mrs. Marjoy leered behind her spectacles. “Very peculiar,” she said, suggestively. “Most odd, particularly when they have been married such a short time. I wonder what the reason can be.” “Health,” said the doctor’s wife. “The woman looks well enough.” “Quite robust.” “Most odd,” observed the vicaress. “My dear, there is no need to look far for an explanation. You see, Mrs. Strong did not consult James; a matter of diplomacy. The inference is inevitable.” Both ladies tittered. Mrs. Mince helped herself to another muffin, and wiped her fingers on a very crumpled handkerchief. “Dear! dear!” she observed; “I often wonder what we are coming to in these fast and atheistical days. Life will become a terrible problem for Christian women like ourselves in the future. If there were only more men like Jacob in the country. That sermon was really a masterpiece.” “A most moving appeal.” “I knew you would think so, my dear. I am always imploring Jacob to publish his sermons, but he is so beautifully modest. I am sure they would exert a great influence on the young men of England.” “If they sold, my dear,” said Mrs. Marjoy. “There could be no doubt on that point.” Mrs. Marjoy shrugged her shoulders; her black hat sat awry on her frowzy brown hair. “Cheap fiction floods the market,” she observed—“such stuff as young Strong would write. Imagine that young fool setting himself up to be an author.” “Ridiculous!” said Mrs. Mince. “And poetry, too! Of course, immoral verses are always fashionable. And as for the novels, I have to read such few as we get before I can let them pass into James’s hands. He is such an innocent man, and I could not let him imbibe such abomination. There is Cracow’s _Renovation_, for instance. I have just finished the book, and I shall burn it.” “Please lend it to me first?” said the vicaress. “As a clergyman’s wife I like to dip into these things. One must be wise as to one’s times, my dear, or one can never confront evil properly.” “Exactly,” said Mrs. Marjoy. “I have turned down the most scandalous pages.” “That will save me time. I can read the worst, my dear, and so speak with authority. I will take the book home with me to-night.”