“When Clara talked about me?” “So far as I recollect, he was not in earshot at that moment, Miss Prudence. But then I wasn’t in earshot while she talked to him. So possibly----” “Now she really is a cat, isn’t she?” “I haven’t the smallest doubt of it. But you must make allowances.” “I do. Still I can’t see why plain people are to say just what they like!” “Nobody minds them,” I observed consolingly. The conversation flagged for a moment or two. That didn’t matter; one can always look at the view. “Is my hat crooked?” asked Miss Prudence with affected anxiety. “I should say you’d get him, if you really want him,” I remarked. My thoughts were switched off in another direction by Miss Prudence’s next utterance. I don’t complain of that; it was probably rightly ordained, as the vicar would have said; there’s something in a meadow and a river that resists middle age--and I don’t know that a blue frock, with eyes to match, and hair that---- “Do you happen to know how much a bishop gets?” asked Prudence. “Not precisely, Miss Prudence. It varies, I believe--like what girls cost. All I know is that it’s never enough for the needs of his diocese.” “Oh, isn’t it?” She looked rather troubled over this information. “So the papers say--and the bishops too sometimes.” “Still you wouldn’t call them exactly poor, would you?” “_I_ call them poor! Good Lord!” was my observation. “You know our bishop’s Palace?” “A charming residence, Miss Prudence--even stately.” “And Sir John says he drives awfully good horses.” “Let us rely on Sir John where we can.” “And Mr Davenport says he gives away a lot.” “Mr Davenport?” “So he can’t be poor, can he?” “Mr Davenport?” “Oh, I beg pardon! But you’ve met him. How forgetful you are! Papa’s curate!” “Dear me, dear me! Of course! You mean Frank?” “Papa calls him Frank.” “You all call him Frank.” “I suppose we do--yes.” “So I forgot his surname just for the minute. Does he call you Prudence?” “What has that got to do with it?” “Roughly speaking, it ranges from three to seven thousand a year. More for archbishops, according to scale, of course.” “Well, that sounds plenty,” said Prudence. (I have ascertained from _Crockford’s Directory_ that the value of the vicar’s living is three hundred and twenty five pounds per annum.) “Don’t be calculating, Miss Prudence!” “And heartless?” The little wrinkle was on her brow again. “That remark of Miss Jenkins’ seems to rankle!” “I wasn’t thinking--altogether--of Clara.” It seemed hard if somebody else had been calling her heartless too--or even thinking it. And all for listening to her mother! I tried to administer consolation.