He arrests the tea-drinkers’ attention by remarking, ‘You know, my dears, I have lately been preoccupied with that cryptic promise in the Book of Isaiah. That Kings shall be thy nursing fathers and queens thy nursing mothers. Have you ever wondered about this mysterious verse and what the Prophet intended by it?’ Teacups hover over saucers. Heads are faintly shaken. Morose Mr Anwyl, plagued by a heavy cold, explodes in a sneeze and shows no desire for theological debate. He sneezes again and the line of ladies seated within range of the spray of droplets leans sideways like grasses in a high wind. ‘No? No? None of you?’ Mrs Kyffin, lately reconciled to her husband through the mediation of their devoted son Charlie, whispers, ‘Not now, dear.’ It’s no good. It has never been any good. Once a verse of the Scriptures has kindled his mind, the pastor burns to pass on the inspiration. Mrs Kyffin gives a little cough behind her hand. Mr Anwyl, red-eyed, sneezes again tremendously, this time into a handkerchief.
