Mr. Wone had not the remotest idea what any of these words meant, but he felt flattered to the depths of his being. It was clear that he had been led to utter some profound philosophical maxim. He once more wished from his heart that his son could hear this conversation! “Well, Mr. Taxater,” he said, “I must now leave you. I have other distinguished gentlemen to call upon before I retire. But I thank you for your promised support. “It would be better, perhaps”--here he lowered his voice and looked jocose and crafty--“not to refer to our little conversation. It might be misunderstood. There is a certain prejudice, you know--unjustifiable, of course, but unfortunately, very prevalent, which makes it wiser--but I need say no more. Good-bye, Mr. Taxater--good night, sir, good night!” And he bowed himself off and proceeded up the street to find the next victim of his evangelical discretion. As soon as he had gone, Mr. Taxater summoned his housekeeper. “The next time that person comes,” he said, “will you explain to him, very politely, that I have been called to London? If this seems improbable, or if he has caught a glimpse of me through the window, will you please explain to him that I am engaged upon a very absorbing literary work.” Mrs. Wotnot nodded. “I kept my eyes open yesterday,” the old woman remarked, in the manner of some veteran conspirator in the service of a Privy Counsellor. “As you happened to be looking for laurel-leaves, I suppose?” said Mr. Taxater, drawing the red curtains across the window, with his expressive episcopal hand. “For laurel-leaves, Mrs. Wotnot, to flavour that excellent custard?” The old woman nodded. “And you saw?” pursued her master. “I saw Mr. Luke Andersen and Miss Gladys Romer.” “Were they as happy as usual--these young people,” asked the theologian mildly, “or were they--otherwise?” “They were very much what you are pleased to call otherwise,” answered the old lady. “Quarrelling in fact?” suggested the diplomat, seating himself deliberately in his arm-chair. “Miss Gladys was crying and Mr. Luke was laughing.” The Papal Apologist waved his hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Wotnot, thank you. These things will happen, won’t they--even in Nevilton? Mr. Luke laughing, and Miss Gladys crying? Your laurel-leaves were very well chosen, my friend. Let me have the rest of that custard tonight! I hope you have not brought back your rheumatism, Mrs. Wotnot, by going so far?” The housekeeper shook her head and retired to prepare supper. Mr. Taxater took up the book by his side and opened it thoughtfully. It was the final volume of the collected works of Joseph de Maistre. Mr. Wone had not advanced far in the direction of the church, when he overtook Vennie Seldom walking slowly, with down-cast head, in the same direction.