Oh, theres nothing much the matter with _me_: it's quite easy to
be a decent parson. It's the Church that chokes me off. I couldnt stick
it for nine hundred years. I should chuck it. You know, sometimes, when
the bishop, who is the most priceless of fossils, lets off something
more than usually out-of-date, the bird starts in my garden.
FRANKLYN. The bird?
HASLAM. Oh yes. Theres a bird there that keeps on singing 'Stick it or
chuck it: stick it or chuck it'--just like that--for an hour on end in
the spring. I wish my father had found some other shop for me.
_The parlor maid comes back._
THE PARLOR MAID. Any letters for the post, sir?
FRANKLYN. These. [_He proffers a basket of letters. She comes to the
table and takes them_].
HASLAM [_to the maid_] Have you told Mr Barnabas yet?
THE PARLOR MAID [_flinching a little_] No, sir.
FRANKLYN. Told me what?
HASLAM. She is going to leave you?
FRANKLYN. Indeed? I'm sorry. Is it our fault, Mr Haslam?
HASLAM. Not a bit. She is jolly well off here.
THE PARLOR MAID [_reddening_] I have never denied it, sir: I couldnt ask
for a better place.
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