"The room was becoming gloriously warm, and already the scent of coffee was creeping in, and the delicious smell of something frying. Hilary sniffed with appreciation, and just for the moment yielded to the pleasurable idea that he was one of those old coves who before the war used to live in luxurious chambers in town, waited on hand and foot by a faithful manservant. Then he thrust the notion from him in horror and remembered that he hadn't said Evensong. He pulled his office book from his pocket, recollected himself and made a start, but the increasingly appetizing smells from the kitchen kept insinuating themselves between him and his God, and he put the book back in his pocket and gave it up as a bad job.
"He was deeply humiliated. He had thought in his younger days that increasing age would mean increasing freedom from the weaknesses of the flesh, and yet here he was with his soul apparently at the beck and call of a frying pan. However, the humiliation was salutary. That was the best thing about old age; it didn't leave you with much upon which to congratulate yourself."
-Elizabeth Goudge, Pilgrim's Inn (1948), p. 254