Then he rested his chin on his hands upon the edge of the cliff, and began to think of Delia's face with the light in her eyes. The Angel felt a curious desire to go to her and tell her of his withered wings. To place his arms about her and weep for the land he had lost. "Delia!" he said to himself very softly. And presently a cloud drove in front of the sun. MRS HINIJER ACTS. XLIV. Mrs Hinijer surprised the Vicar by tapping at his study door after tea. "Begging your pardon, Sir," said Mrs Hinijer. "But might I make so bold as to speak to you for a moment?" "Certainly, Mrs Hinijer," said the Vicar, little dreaming of the blow that was coming. He held a letter in his hand, a very strange and disagreeable letter from his bishop, a letter that irritated and distressed him, criticising in the strongest language the guests he chose to entertain in his own house. Only a popular bishop living in a democratic age, a bishop who was still half a pedagogue, could have written such a letter. Mrs Hinijer coughed behind her hand and struggled with some respiratory disorganisation. The Vicar felt apprehensive. Usually in their interviews he was the most disconcerted. Invariably so when the interview ended. "Well?" he said. "May I make so bold, sir, as to arst when Mr Angel is a-going?" (Cough.) The Vicar started. "To ask when Mr Angel is going?" he repeated slowly to gain time. "_Another!_" "I'm sorry, sir. But I've been used to waitin' on gentlefolks, sir; and you'd hardly imagine how it feels quite to wait on such as 'im." "Such as ... _'im_! Do I understand you, Mrs Hinijer, that you don't like Mr Angel?" "You see, sir, before I came to you, sir, I was at Lord Dundoller's seventeen years, and you, sir--if you will excuse me--are a perfect gentleman yourself, sir--though in the Church. And then...." "Dear, dear!" said the Vicar. "And don't you regard Mr Angel as a gentleman?" "I'm sorry to 'ave to say it, sir." "But what...? Dear me! Surely!"