your abdominal exercises, you must say to yourself, 'I don't give a hoot for literary fame.' Say it a hundred times per noctem for a month, and I'll wager my reputation you'll believe it. Won't he, Bisham?"
"Certainly," said her husband.
"So," she concluded, "all you have to do is hand over that key and write out that authorisation and in the same moment your troubles are at an end."
"Well," said the Archdeacon, "I accept your terms. I'd rather be a famous novelist than a bishop any day, but I'd rather be a bishop than go cruising after spermaceti. I admit you've done me down, Chloë. You've been too many for the poor old dad. So won't you untie me now and shan't we be going?"
"You forget," she said, "that little matter of the key."
"Oh!" said the Archdeacon grinning,
