"One never knows," he said, "when, or how near, the
gods have passed. One may be listening to us in this garden,
to-night. . . . As for the Greeks--"
"Yes, yes, we were talking of the Greeks," the Senior Tutor (a
convinced agnostic) put in hastily. "If we leave out Pytheas, no
Greeks ever visited Cornwall. They are as mythical hereabouts as"--
he hesitated, seeking a comparison--"as the Cornish wreckers; and
_they_ never existed outside of pious story-books."
Said the Vicar, rising from his garden-chair, "I accept the omen.
Wait a moment, you two." He left us and went across the dim lawn to
the house, whence by and by he returned bearing a book under his arm,
and in his hand a candle, which he set down unlit upon the wicker
table among the coffee-cups.
"I am going," he said, "to tell you something which, a few years ago,
I should have scrupled to tell. With all deference to your opinions,
my dear Dick, I doubt if they quite allow you to understand the
clergy's horror of chancing a heresy; indeed, I doubt if either of
you quite guess what a bridle a man comes to wear who preaches a
hundred sermons or so every year to a rural parish, knowing that
nine-tenths of his discourse will assuredly be lost, while at any
point in the whole of it he may be fatally misunderstood.
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