"I'm sure he had," said Roland, with good-natured warmth. "Oh, we hear a good deal in our office. As to four thousand a-year being little for one man, you should have been at Port Natal, Gerald, and you'd estimate it differently." "To a man about town, like myself, it seems a starvation pittance, considering what Sir Vincent will have to do out of it," returned Gerald loftily, speaking to any at table, rather than to his brother. "That's just it," said Roland. "If I were a man about town, and had not been out to Port Natal and learnt the value of money, it might seem so to me. Dick won't find it enough, I daresay. I should think a rent of four hundred a-year riches!" Gerald curled his lip. "No doubt; and some pigs to drive." "I'd like a pig, Roland," cried Nelly Channing, turning to him, and unconsciously creating a diversion. "A pretty little pig, with blue ribbons." "As pretty as you," said Roland, squeezing her. "You mean a guinea-pig, little stupid. As to driving pigs, Gerald--it's not a very good employment of course; but you see I had to do what I was put to--or starve." "I'd rather starve than do it," retorted Gerald. "And so would any one with the instincts of a gentleman." "You only go out there and try what starving is; you'd t good-humour ell a different tale," said Roland, maintaining his good-humour. "Starving there means starving." Some one of those turns in conversation, which occur so naturally, brought round the subject to Mr. Ollivera. Roland, imparting sundry revelations of his home-life at Mrs. Jones's--or, as he called her still, Mrs. Jenkins--mentioned the clergyman's name. "Don't you mean to call and see him?" he asked of William Yorke. "You'd better." But Mr. Yorke declined. "My time in London is so very short," he said; "I go home tomorrow. Besides, I have really no acquaintance with Mr. Ollivera. We never met but on one occasion." "When you lent him your surplice," spoke Roland. And William Yorke looked up in surprise. "What do you know about it?" "Oh, I know a great deal," returned Roland. "I say--why did you not attend that night yourself? You promised." "I did not promise. All I said was that I would consider of it. Upon reflection, I thought it better not to go. The circumstances were very peculiar; and the Dean, had he come to know of it, might have taken me to task." "Not he," said independent Roland. "The Dean's made of sterling gold." "What sort of a chanter does Tom make?" enquired Hamish. "Very fair; very fair, indeed," replied William Yorke, some patronage in his tone, meant for the absent young minor canon. Consciously vain of his own excellence in chanting, Mr. Yorke could but accord comparative praise to Tom Channing's. The vanity was not without cause; Mr. Yorke's sweet and sonorous voice was wont to fill the aisles of the old cathedral with its melody.