It was such an awful shock to Plant and Rivaulx, and, for the matter of that, to his lordship the Bishop of Spilsborough, that they all gasped dreadfully. Plant took the bishop by the sleeve. Rivaulx lay down upon the grass under the dean’s window, and howled as he tore at the turf. The dean said: "I’ll come out! This is becoming serious!" He came out, and, as he opened the door, the light of the hall lamp fell upon Bob’s face. "Good heavens!" said the bishop, "I thought I knew the voice. Is that you, Robert Goring?" Bob said it was, but added that he didn’t know the bishop. "Boy, I christened you," said the bishop. "Is all this trouble about Penelope Brading, whom I also christened?" "Yes," replied Bob; "shall I tell you about it?" "Let us retire a few paces, and you can tell me," said the bishop. "In the meantime, Mr. Dean, I beg you to exercise patience with the French nobleman on the grass. Come, Bob." "Well, it’s awful rot, you know," said Bob, speaking very rapidly. "We don’t know where we are in the family, and grandmother is lying on a sofa screaming." "Why, Bob?" "You must have heard of it." The bishop had heard a great deal, but not all. "Pen says she’s married and has a kid," said Bob, "and she won’t say who it is. And all these jossers, including Plant, he’s the American over there, and the marquis chewing the grass, said they had married her themselves. Do you see, sir,—my lord, I mean?" "I see," said the bishop, putting his finger-tips together. "It was, I think, very noble of them." "But granny said it was very trying, and it made her ill, for she wasn’t any further than before, unless Pen had married them all. And grandfather, who kept cool, said that was unlikely." "It certainly seems unlikely," said the bishop. "But when you came to us, you made some very astonishing remarks about a groom, one Bunting, I think. Now what is there to know about him?" "Weekes said that, the beast!" cried Bob. "Who is the beast Weekes?" asked the bishop. Bob told him who Miss Harriet Weekes was.