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garden wall. We have said very little about it, but I think we both feel that the change is
unnecessary, and just a little irritating."
"Perhaps," said the friend, "it is a different thrush."
"We have suspected that," said J. P. Huddle, "and I think it gives us even more cause for
annoyance. We don't feel that we want a change of thrush at our time of life; and yet, as I
have said, we have scarcely reached an age when these things should make themselves
seriously felt."
"What you want," said the friend, "is an Unrest-cure."
"An Unrest-cure? I've never heard of such a thing."
"You've heard of Rest-cures for people who've broken down under stress of too much
worry and strenuous living; well, you're suffering from overmuch repose and placidity,
and you need the opposite kind of treatment."
"But where would one go for such a thing?"
"Well, you might stand as an Orange candidate for Kilkenny, or do a course of district
visiting in one of the Apache quarters of Paris, or give lectures in Berlin to prove that
most of Wagner's music was written by Gambetta; and there's always the interior of
Morocco to travel in. But, to be really effective, the Unrest- cure ought to be tried in the
home. How you would do it I haven't the faintest idea."
It was at this point in the conversation that Clovis became galvanized into alert attention.
After all, his two days' visit to an elderly relative at Slowborough did not promise much
excitement. Before the train had stopped he had decorated his sinister shirt-cuff with the
inscription, "J. P. Huddle, The Warren, Tilfield, near Slowborough."
. . . . . . . . .
Two mornings later Mr. Huddle broke in on his sister's privacy as she sat reading
Country Life in the morning room. It was her day and hour and place for reading Country
Life, and the intrusion was absolutely irregular; but he bore in his hand a telegram, and in
that household telegrams were recognized as happening by the hand of God. This
particular telegram partook of the nature of a thunderbolt. "Bishop examining
confirmation class in neighbourhood unable stay rectory on account measles invokes
your hospitality sending secretary arrange."
"I scarcely know the Bishop; I've only spoken to him once," exclaimed J. P. Huddle, with
the exculpating air of one who realizes too late the indiscretion of speaking to strange
Bishops. Miss Huddle was the first to rally; she disliked thunderbolts as fervently as her
brother did, but the womanly instinct in her told her that thunderbolts must be fed.
"We can curry the cold duck," she said. It was not the appointed day for curry, but the
little orange envelope involved a certain departure from rule and custom. Her brother said
nothing, but his eyes thanked her for being brave.
"A young gentleman to see you," announced the parlour-maid.
"The secretary!" murmured the Huddles in unison; they instantly stiffened into a
demeanour which proclaimed that, though they held all strangers to be guilty, they were
willing to hear anything they might have to say in their defence. The young gentleman,
who came into the room with a certain elegant haughtiness, was not at all Huddle's idea
of a bishop's secretary; he had not supposed that the episcopal establishment could have
afforded such an expensively upholstered article when there were so many other claims
on its resources. The face was fleetingly familiar; if he had bestowed more attention on
the fellow-traveller sitting opposite him in the railway carriage two days before he might
have recognized Clovis in his present visitor.
"You are the Bishop's secretary?" asked Huddle, becoming consciously deferential.
"His confidential secretary," answered Clovis. You may call me Stanislaus; my other
name doesn't matter. The Bishop and Colonel Alberti may be here to lunch. I shall be
here in any case."
It sounded rather like the programme of a Royal visit.
"The Bishop is examining a confirmation class in the neighbourhood, isn't he?" asked
Miss Huddle.
"Ostensibly," was the dark reply, followed by a request for a large-scale map of the
locality.
Clovis was still immersed in a seemingly profound study of the map when another
telegram arrived. It was addressed to "Prince Stanislaus, care of Huddle, The Warren,
etc." Clovis glanced at the contents and announced: "The Bishop and Alberti won't be
here till late in the afternoon." Then he returned to his scrutiny of the map.
The luncheon was not a very festive function. The princely secretary ate and drank with
fair appetite, but severely discouraged conversation. At the finish of the meal he broke
suddenly into a radiant smile, thanked his hostess for a charming repast, and kissed her
hand with deferential rapture.
Miss Huddle was unable to decide in her mind whether the action savoured of Louis
Quatorzian courtliness or the reprehensible Roman attitude towards the Sabine women. It
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