They looked at one another like two fencers, seeking to discover their strength in each other’s face. The Prime Minister’s eyes had a peculiar force which suggested the reason of his long-continued power; they lacked brilliancy, but there was in them a curious intensity of vision which seemed to absorb the thoughts of other men’s minds. The silence lasted interminably. Canon Spratte bore the great man’s gaze with perfect steadfastness, and presently Lord Stonehenge looked away. He stared out of the window, into space, and the Canon thought he had entirely forgotten the subject in hand. “I need not tell you that I will do everything I can to bring Durant to a reasonable state of mind. At present he’s wavering. You probably know the facts better than I do, but he tells me the liquor party will follow him. I understand if they go against you the result will be--awkward.” Lord Stonehenge apparently did not hear. His eyes still rested heavily on the trees in the park. Canon Spratte began to grow a little irritated, but still he waited patiently. At last the Prime Minister spoke. “I suppose you’ve heard that Gray is dead?” “I have.” “Would you like to go to Barchester?” Although he seemed desperately stupid Lord Stonehenge had understood. The Canon’s heart gave a leap and he caught his breath. He forgot that Barchester stood on a clay soil, and it no longer seemed a tedious place. At last! But he showed no eagerness to accept. He knew as well as the Prime Minister that the Government was in the hollow of his hand. At that moment a bishop came up to Lord Stonehenge with a telegram in his hand. Canon Spratte gave him an impatient frown. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I think you ought to see this,” said the newcomer. He handed the telegram to Lord Stonehenge, who glanced at it irritably. The bishop knew Canon Spratte and nodded to him. “It’s to tell me that the Bishop of Sheffield died in his sleep early this morning. He’s been ailing for some time.” “Thank you,” said the Prime Minister.