"No doubt, Mr. Bolt; no doubt," said Mr. Puddleham, who had quite
recovered from his first dismay, and had worked himself up to a state
of eloquent enthusiasm. "I dare say he was civil. Why not? In old
days when we hardly dared to talk of having a decent house of prayer
of our own in which to worship our God, he was always civil. No one
has ever heard me accuse Mr. Fenwick of incivility. But will any one
tell me that he is a friend to our mode of worship? Gentlemen, we
must look to ourselves, and I for one tell you that that chapel is
ours. You won't find that his ban will keep me out of my pulpit.
Glebe, indeed! why should the Vicar have glebe on the other side of
the road from his house? Or, for the matter of that, why should he
have glebe at all?" This was so decisive that no one at the meeting
had a word to say after Mr. Puddleham had finished his speech.

When the Marquis received his letter he was up in London. Lord
Trowbridge was not much given to London life, but was usually
compelled by circumstances,--the circumstances being the custom of
society as pleaded by his two daughters,--to spend the months of May,
June, and July at the family mansion in Grosvenor Square. Moreover,
though the Marquis never opened his mouth in the House of Lords, it
was, as he thought, imperative on him to give to the leader of his
party the occasional support of his personal presence. Our Vicar,
knowing this, had addressed his letter to Grosvenor Square, and
it had thus reached its destination without loss of time. Lord
Trowbridge by this time knew the handwriting of his enemy; and, as he
broke the envelope, there came upon him an idea that it might be wise
to refuse the letter, and to let it go back to its writer unopened.
It was beneath his dignity to correspond with a man, or to receive
letters from a man who would probably insult him. But before he could
make up his mind, the envelope had been opened, and the letter had
been read. His wrath, when he had read it, no writer of a simple
prose narration should attempt to describe. "Disgrace," "insult,"
"ignorance," and "malice,"--these were the words with which the
Marquis found himself pelted by this pestilent, abominable, and most
improper clergyman. As to the gist of the letter itself, it was some
time before he understood it. And when he did begin to understand
it, he did not as yet begin to believe it. His intelligence worked
slowly, whereas his wrath worked quickly. But at la