'What we have to do, my dear brethren, is stay on the straight and narrow path between right and wrong.' - Fragment of Irish sermon
To Neville Faulks
"But what on earth am I to write about?" asked Dr. Andrew Butler.
Patiently he waited, meanwhile resting the dish on Fruity’s head; and when at last the service was restored and the lights went up,
Miss Amanda Browne was one of the few landowners in the neighbourhood who still welcomed him, and in fact they were close friends. On the face of it, they were a curiously assorted pair. At seventy-three Miss Browne still rode to hounds, shot, fished and expressed her point of view with a wealth of manly expletive, and at no time had Lord Patrickstown done any of these things.
Miss Browne was not the woman to squander her imaginative powers, which she reserved for her historical works. Beyond a vague speculation as to whether Mr. Ferguson were a brawny Highland chief who might presently be used as a model, she made no attempt to visualize the man who for so long had promptly and courteously, if also a little primly, answered her letters.
"A lovely soft evening, thank God," said the Canon aloud; and slowly, thankfully, reverently, he drew down the blinds.