Sorrow is always the casual
mistress, and not the wife. One recovers from everything but
happiness; that is one's native air."
IX
THE VICAR
The Vicarage was a pleasant house, with an air of comfort and
moderate wealth about it. It was part of Frank Sandys' sense,
thought Howard, that he was content to live so simple and retired a
life. He did not often absent himself, even for a holiday. Howard
was shown into the study which Mr. Sandys had improved and
enlarged. It was a big room, with an immense, perfectly plain deal
table in the middle, stained a dark brown; and the Vicar showed
Howard with high glee how each of the four sides of the table was
consecrated to a different avocation. "My accounts end!" he said,
"my sermon side! my correspondence end! my genealogical side!"
There were a number of small dodges, desks for holding books, flaps
which could be let up and down, slits in the table through which
papers could be dropped into drawers, a cord by which the bell
could be rung without rising from his place, a cord by which the
door could be bolted. "Not very satisfactory, that last," said the
Vicar, "but I am on the track of an improvement. The worst of it
is," said the good man, "that I have so little time. I make
extracts from the books I read for my sermons, I cut out telling
anecdotes from the papers. I like to raise questions every now
and then in the Guardian, and that lets me in for a lot of
correspondence.
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