‘Peace on earth and good–will among men, are, like heaven, promises for the future;’ said he, following rather his own thoughts than hers. ‘When that prophecy is accomplished, there will no longer be any need for clergymen.’

Here they were interrupted by the archdeacon, whose voice was heard from the cellar shouting to the vicar.

‘Arabin, Arabin,’—and then turning to his wife, who was apparently at his elbow—’where is he gone to? This cellar is perfectly abominable. It would be murder to put a bottle of wine into it till it has been roofed, walled, and floored. How on earth old Goodenough ever got on with it, I cannot guess. But then Goodenough never had a glass of wine that any man could drink.’

‘What is it, archdeacon?’ said the vicar, running down stairs, and leaving Eleanor above to her meditations.

‘This cellar must be roofed, walled, and floored,’ repeated the archdeacon. ‘Now mind what I say, and don’t let the architect persuade you that it will do; half of those fellows know nothing about wine. This place as it is now would be damp and cold in winter, and hot and muggy in summer. I wouldn’t give a straw for the best wine that ever was minted, after it had lain here a couple of years.’

Mr Arabin assented, and promised that the cellar should be reconstructed according to the archdeacon’s receipt.

‘And, Arabin, look here; was such an attempt at a kitchen grate ever seen?’

‘The grate is really very bad,’ said Mrs Grantly; ‘I am sure the priestess won’t approve of it, when she is brought here to the scene of future duties. Really, Mr Arabin, no priestess accustomed to such an excellent well as that above could put up with such a grate as this.’

‘If there must be a priestess at St Ewold’s at all, Mrs Grantly, I think we shall leave her to her well, and not call down her divine wrath on any of the imperfections rising from our human poverty. However, I own I am amenable to the attractions of a well–cooked dinner, and the grate shall certainly be changed.’

By this time the archdeacon had again ascended, and was now in the dining–room. ‘Arabin,’ said he, speaking in his usual loud clear voice, and with that tone of dictation which was so common to him; ‘you must positively alter this dining–room, that is, remodel it altogether; look here, it is just sixteen feet by fifteen; did anybody ever hear of a dining–room of such proportions?’ and the archdeacon stepped the room long–ways and cross–ways with ponderous steps, as though a certain amount of ecclesiastical dignity could be imparted even to such an occupation as that by the manner of doing it. ‘Barely sixteen; you may call it a square.’

‘It would do very well for a round table,’ suggested the ex–warden.

Now there was something peculiarly unorthodox in the archdeacon’s estimation in the idea of a round table. He had always been accustomed to a goodly board of decent length, comfortably elongating itself according to the number of guests, nearly black with perpetual rubbing, and as bright as a mirror. Now round dinner tables are generally of oak, or else of such new construction as not to have acquired the peculiar hue which was so pleasing to him. He connected them with what he called the nasty new fangled method of leaving cloth on the table, as though to warn people that they were not to sit long. In his eyes there was something democratic and parvenu in a round table. He imagined that dissenters and calico–printers chiefly used them, and perhaps a few literary lions more conspicuous for their wit than their gentility. He was a little flurried at the idea of such an article, being introduced into the diocese by a protégé of his own, and at the instigation of his father–in–law.

‘A round dinner–table,’ said he, with some heat, ‘is the most abominable article of furniture that ever was invented. I hope that Arabin has more taste than to allow such a thing in his house.’