Wolf advanced slowly up the drive. The click of the hoe on the gravel made so much noise that his approach was unobserved.

Mr. Valley’s green-tinted trousers⁠—he thinks nothing of Sunday, thought Wolf⁠—covered such lean flanks, as he stooped, that it was as if the trousers were doing the weeding rather than the man.

“Good morning, Valley! Not started ringing your bell yet, then?”

A twinge of physical discomfort, as he resumed his upright position, crossed the priest’s face. He rubbed his spine with the back of his left hand, as he offered his right to his visitor.

“Stiff. I feel rather stiff, Solent. You must excuse my being stiff.”