Here is
it."
He folded the sheet conveniently for Christopher's inspection, and
pointed--
"_H-y-g-i-e-n-e_."
Mr. Parish read eagerly, his eyes close to the print, dreading lest
he should forget.
"Thanks very much, sir. I--a friend of mine told me I was wrong. I
knew I wasn't--thanks awfully!"
The white-haired man smiled approval, and returned to his study of
the news. Christopher kept spelling the word in silence, and though
the weather was very cold, soon perspired under the dread that he
had got a letter wrong. At St. George's Church agitation quite
overcame him; he hurried from the car, ran into a by-street, and
with his pocket pencil wrote on the blank sheet of paper "Hygiene."
Yes, he had it right. It looked right. Now for the nearest
letter-box.
But his faith in "Hygiene" had risen to such fervour that he dreaded
the delay of postal delivery. Why not carry the letter himself to
the editorial office, which was at no very great distance? He would,
even though it made him late at Swettenham's. And he began to run.
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