state it was the Bishop in
whom the Archdeacon was to confide. But sometimes in the evenings after
a glass of cowslip wine, her imagination took a bolder flight. The
Archbishop himself was to be the confidant of the distracted cleric.
This presented no real difficulty after the first moment, for the
Archbishop was in the flower of his age--the Archdeacon's age--and
might easily have been at school with him. Aunt Aggie had once seen
Lambeth from a cab window as she passed over Westminster Bridge. Under
that historic tower she heard the first subject of the King urge his
brother prelate to take heart, promising assistance.

We will pass over Aunt Aggie's amazed reception of a cordial invitation
to stay at Lambeth, her hesitating acceptance, her arrival, the
magnificent banquet, crowded with ministers and bishops, the fact that
the Archbishop himself singled her out as the object of courtly though
somewhat anxious attentions. And then after dinner Aunt Aggie, in her
plum-coloured satin, was to be unconsciously but skilfully withdrawn
from the glittering throng by the Archbishop. And in his study he was to
make a great, a fervent appeal to her. Aunt Aggie had bought a
photograph of him in order to deaden the shock of this moment. But
nevertheless whenever she reached this point she was always really
frightened. Her hands really trembled. The Archbishop was to ask her
with tempered indignation how much longer she intended to nullify the
labours of his ablest colleague, how much longer her selfish
predilection for celibacy was to wreck the life and paralyse the powers
of a broken-hearted man. Her cruelty was placed before her in glowing
colours. She was observed to waver, to falter. A tear was seen in spite
of her marvellous self-control to course down her cheek. The eye of an
Archbishop misses nothing. With an ejaculation of profound relief he
beckons to a distant figure which appears in a doorway. The Archdeacon
in his evening gaiters rushes in. Aunt Aggie gives way!

After this final feat of the imagination Aunt Aggie generally felt so
worn out by emotion that food was absolutely necessary to her.

On this occasion she sat down quivering on a heap of stones by the
roadside, and drew forth a biscuit which she had secreted at luncheon at
the Vicarage an hour before. It must be owned that she was fond of food,
though not in the same way that most of us are addicted to it. She liked
eating buns out of paper bags at odd momen