"Church of England. Every man in this country who has not dissented belongs to the Church of England. It'll be hard enough to get you anything without that."
"But—" said Mr. Lewisham. "It's lying."
"Legal fiction," said Mr. Blendershin. "Everyone understands. If you don't do that, my dear chap, we can't do anything for you. It's journalism, or London docks. Well, considering your experience,—say docks."
Lewisham's face flushed irregularly. He did not answer. He scowled and tugged at the still by no means ample moustache.
"Compromise, you know," said Mr. Blendershin, watching him kindly. "Compromise."
For the first time in his life Lewisham faced the necessity of telling a lie in cold blood. He glissaded from the austere altitudes of his self-respect and his next words were already disingenuous.
"I won't promise to tell lies if I'm asked," he said aloud. "I can't do that."
"Scratch it out," said Blendershin to the clerk. "You needn't mention it. Then you don't say you can teach drawing."
"I can't," said Lewisham.
"You just give out the copies," said Blendershin, "and take care they don't see you draw, you know.
