One
I t is difficult to know quite where to begin this story, but I have fixed¹ my choice on a certain Wednesday at luncheonat the Vicarage. The conversation, though in the main irrelevant² to the matter in hand, yet contained one or twosuggestive incidents which influenced later developments.
I had just finished carving³ some boiled beef (remarkably tough by the way) and on resuming my seat I remarked, ina spirit most unbecoming to my cloth, that anyone who murdered Colonel Protheroe would be doing the world at largea service.
My young nephew, Dennis, said instantly:
“That’ll be remembered against you when the old boy is found bathed in blood. Mary will give evidence, won’tyou, Mary? And describe how you brandished⁴ the carving knife in a vindictive⁵ manner.”
Mary, who is in service at the Vicarage as a stepping-stone to better things and higher wages, merely said in a loud,businesslike voice, “Greens,” and thrust a cracked dish at him in a truculent⁶ manner.
My wife said in a sympathetic voice: “Has he been very trying?”
I did not reply at once, for Mary, setting the greens on the table with a bang, proceeded to thrust a dish ofsingularly moist and unpleasant dumplings under my nose. I said, “No, thank you,” and she deposited the dish with aclatter on the table and left the room.
“It is a pity that I am such a shocking housekeeper,” said my wife, with a tinge⁷ of genuine regret in her voice.
I was inclined to agree with her. My wife’s name is Griselda—a highly suitable name for a parson’s wife. But therethe suitability ends. She is not in the least meek⁸.
I have always been of the opinion that a clergyman should be unmarried. Why I should have urged Griselda tomarry me at the end of twenty-four hours’ acquaintance is a mystery to me. Marriage, I have always held, is a seriousaffair, to be entered into only after long deliberation and forethought, and suitability of tastes and

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