The scene was the comfortable spacious breakfast-room in the Bishop's
Palace. His lordship sat nearest to the fire; the bishop's wife presided
over the fragrant coffee-pot, and the curate, their dine-and-sleep
guest, sat opposite the bishop and farthest from the warmth. As a curate
this position was his due. Some day he also would be a bishop, and then
he too would know what it was to intercept the glow.
The curate was looking dubiously into the recesses of an egg. His fine
Anglican features underwent a series of contortions.
"I am afraid," said the bishop, "that that egg is not a good one."
"You are right, my lord," said the curate. "It is not only bad, it's
alive. I think it's the worst egg that was ever offered me."