"So you are in London, dear boy.

Is there any little thing you want?
I have," he continued, absently fumbling in the drawers of his dressing-table, "a few curacies and a bishopric somewhere, but with these blessed models--I can't think where they are.
Or what would you say to a nice chaplaincy in the navy, with a becoming uniform, on one of those thingummies ?" He pointed to the bath-room.
"Stay," he continued, as he passed his hand over his perplexed brows, "now I think of it--you're quite unorthodox! Dear me! that wouldn't do.
You see, Drake,"-- he paused, as John Gale started,--"I mean Sir Francis Drake, once suspended his chaplain for unorthodoxy, according to Froude's book.

These admirals are dreadfully strict Churchmen.

No matter! Come again some other time," he added, gently pushing his nephew downstairs and into the street, "and we'll see about it." With a sinking heart, John turned his steps toward Westminster.

He would go and see Golly; perhaps he had not looked after her as he ought.