"Oh, no," Bertram replied, falling incautiously into the trap. "We
do right every day of the week alike,--and never do poojah of any
sort at any time."

"Then where do you come from?" the Dean asked severely, pouncing
down upon him like a hawk. "I've always understood the very lowest
savages have at least some outer form or shadow of religion."

"Yes, perhaps so; but we're not savages, either low or otherwise,"
Bertram answered cautiously, perceiving his error. "And as to your
other point, for reasons of my own, I prefer for the present not to
say where I come from. You wouldn't believe me, if I told you--as
you didn't, I saw, about my remote connection with the Duke of East
Anglia's family. And we're not accustomed, where I live, to be
disbelieved or doubted. It's perhaps the one thing that really
almost makes us lose our tempers. So, if you please, I won't go
any further at present into the debatable matter of my place of
origin."

He rose to stroll off into the gardens, having spoken all the time
in that peculiarly grave and dignified tone that seemed natural to
him whenever any one tried to question him closely. Nobody save a
churchman would have continued the discussion. But the Dean was a
churchman, and also a Scot, and he returned to the attack,
unabashed and unbaffled. "But surely, Mr. Ingledew," he said in a
persuasive voice, "your people, whoever they are, must at least
acknowledge a creator of the universe."

Bertram gazed at him fixedly. His eye was stern. "My people, sir,"