There was a knock at the door, and the Canon, replacing the volume at which he had glanced, took out in its stead the first book of Hooker’s _Ecclesiastical Polity_. He had far too keen a sense of decorum to appear one man to the world and to his immediate relatives another. No unforeseen accident had ever found him other than self-contained, oratorical, and didactic. Not even his family was privileged to see him _en robe de chambre_. It was his son who knocked. Lionel had been taking an early service at St. Gregory’s, and had not yet seen his father. “Come in, come in,” said the Canon. “Good morning, Lionel.” “I hope I’m not disturbing you, father. I want to book some certificates.” “You can never disturb me when you are fulfilling the duties of your office, my boy. Pray sit down.” He put the _Ecclesiastical Polity_ open on the desk. “Hulloa, are you reading this?” asked the curate. “I’ve not looked at it since I was at Oxford.” “Then you make a mistake, Lionel. Hooker’s _Ecclesiastical Polity_ is not only a monument of the English Church, but also a masterwork of the English language. That is my complaint with the clergy of the present day, that they neglect the great productions of their fathers. Stevenson you read, and you read Renan, atheist though he is; but Hooker you have not looked at since you were at Oxford.” “I see that Andover is dead, father,” said Lionel, to change the conversation. “I look upon it as an uncommon happy release.” “I wonder if they really will offer you the bishopric?” “My dear boy, that is not a subject upon which I allow my thoughts to dwell. I will not conceal from you that, as the youngest surviving son of the late Lord Chancellor, I think I have some claims upon my country. And I have duties towards it as well, so that if the bishopric is offered to me I shall not hesitate to accept. You remember St. Paul’s words to Timothy? _This is a true saying, if a man desire the office of a bishop he desireth a good work._ But in these matters there is so much ignoble wire-pulling, so much backstairs influence to which my character is not suited and to which I could not bring myself to descend.” Presently, however, when Canon Spratte strolled along Piccadilly on the way to his club, it occurred to him that the day before he had given his tailor an order for two pairs of trousers. His circumstances had taught him neither to spend money recklessly, nor to despise a certain well-bred economy; and it was by no means impossible that he would have no use for those particular articles of clothing. He walked up Savile Row. “Mr. Marsden, will you inquire whether those garments I ordered yesterday have been cut yet?” The tailor passed the question down his speaking-tube. “No, sir,” he said. “Not yet.” “Then will you delay them till further notice?” “Certainly, sir.” Canon Spratte was going out of the shop when he noticed on a fashion plate the costume of a bishop.