It was his daily walk with Eileen, however, which introduced Excalibur to life--life in its broadest and most romantic sense. As I was not privileged to be present at the opening incident of this episode, or at most of its subsequent developments, the direct conduct of this narrative here passes out of my hands.
One sunny morning in July a young man in clerical attire sat breakfasting in his rooms at Mrs. Tice's. Mrs. Tice's establishment was situated on the village street and Mrs. Tice was in the habit of letting her ground floor to lodgers of impeccable respectability.
It was half-past eleven, which is a late hour for the clergy to breakfast; but this young man appeared to be suffering from no qualms of conscience on the subject. He was making an excellent breakfast and reading the Henley results with a mixture of rapture and longing.
He had just removed the "Sportsman" from the convenient buttress of the teapot and substituted "Punch" when he became aware that day had turned to night. Looking up he perceived that his open window, which was rather small and of the casement variety, was completely blocked by a huge, shapeless, and opaque mass. Next moment the mass resolved itself into an animal of enormous size and surprising appearance, which fell heavily into the room, and
Like a stream that, spouting from a cliff, Fails in mid-air, but, gathering at the base, Remakes itself,
rose to its feet and, advancing to the table, laid a heavy head on the white cloth and lovingly passed its tongue--which resembled that of the great anteater--round a cold chicken conveniently adjacent.
Five minutes later the window framed another picture--this time a girl of twenty, white-clad and wearing a powder-blue felt hat, caught up on one side by a silver buckle which twinkled in the hot morning sun. The curate started to his feet. Excalibur, who was now lying on the hearthrug dismembering the chicken, thumped his tail guiltily on the floor, but made no attempt to rise.
"I am very sorry," said Eileen, "but I am afraid my dog is trespassing. May I call him out?"
"Certainly!" said the curate. "But"--he racked his brains to devise some means of delaying the departure of this radiant, fragrant vision--"he is not the least in the way. I am very glad of his company; it was most neighborly of him to call. After all, I suppose he is one of my parishioners. And--and"--he blushed--"I hope you are, too."