tation. In all humility, let us be grateful for the scandal which
falls at our feet like ripe fruit, for the Divorce Court and for the
newspapers that, with a witty semblance of horror, report for us the
spicy details. If at certain intervals propriety obliges us to confess
that we are miserable sinners, has not the Lord sought to comfort us in
the recollection that we are not half so bad as most people?

Mr. Dryland went to the Vicarage to enter certificates in the parish
books. The Vicar was in his study, and gave his curate the keys of the
iron safe.

"Sophie Bunch came last night to put up her banns," he said.

"She's going to marry out of the parish, isn't she?"

"Yes, a Tunbridge Wells man."

The curate carefully blotted the entries he had made, and returned the
heavy books to their place.

"Will you come into the dining-room, Dryland?" said the Vicar, with a
certain solemnity. "Mrs Jackson would like to speak to you."

"Certainly."

Mrs. Jackson was reading the _Church Times_. Her thin, sharp face wore
an expression of strong disapproval; her tightly-closed mouth, her sharp
nose, even the angular lines of her body, signified clearly that her
moral sense was outraged. She put her hand quickly to her massive fringe
to see that it was straight, and rose to shake hands with Mr. Dryland.
His heavy red face assumed at once a grave look; his moral sense was
outraged, too.

"Isn't this dreadful news, Mr. Dryland?"

"Oh, very sad! Very sad!"

In both their voices, hidden below an intense sobriety, there was
discernible a slight ring of exultation.

"The moment I saw him I felt he would give trouble," said Mrs. Jackson,
shaking her head. "I told you, Archibald, that I didn't like the look of
him."

"I'm bound to say you did," admitted her lord and master.

"Mary Clibborn is much too good for him," added Mrs. Jackson,
decisively. "She's a saint."

"The fact is, that he's suffering from a swollen head," remarked the
curate, who used slang as a proof of manliness.

"There, Archibald!" cried the lady, triumphantly. "What did I tell you?"

"Mrs. Jackson thought he was conceited."

"I don't think it; I'm sure of it. He's odiously conceited. All the time
I was talking to him I felt he considered himself superior to me. No
nice-minded man would have refused our offer to say a short prayer on
his behalf during morning service."

"Those army men always have a very good opinion of themselves," said Mr.
Drylan