“My dear Sophia, I may have faults,” laughed the Canon. “We all have faults--even you, my dear. But no one has ever accused me of usurping more than my fair share of the conversation. I daresay he was a little shy.” “I daresay!” said Lady Sophia, dryly. V The same evening, before going to his room to dress for dinner at the Hollingtons, Canon Spratte wrote to an acquaintance who was clerical correspondent for an important paper. _MY DEAR MR. WILSON_, _I wish you would announce in your admirable Journal that there is no truth whatever in the rumour that I have been offered the vacant bishopric of Barchester. This, however, gives me an opportunity to say how thoroughly I condemn the modern practice of assigning this and that post, in the wildest, most improbable fashion, to all sorts and conditions of men. In these days of self-advertisement, I suppose it is too much to ask that people should keep silent on the positions to which they expect themselves or their friends to be elevated, but I cannot help thinking such a proceeding would be at once more decorous and more discreet._ _Yours most faithfully_, _THEODORE SPRATTE_. While changing, he remembered that flippant, disparaging remark which Lady Sophia had made the day before about his calves. He looked at himself in the glass and smiled with good-humoured scorn. “They think I couldn’t wear gaiters,” he murmured. “I fancy there are few bishops who’ve got better legs than I have.” They were indeed well-shaped and muscular, for Canon Spratte, wisely, took abundant exercise. “I think it’s rather chilly to-night, Ponsonby,” he said. “Will you bring me my fur coat.” He put it on, and holding himself with a sort of dashing serenity, looked again in the glass. It would have been absurd not to recognize that he was a person of handsome and attractive presence. Few men can wear very elaborate garments without being ridiculous, but Canon Spratte was made for pompous, magnificent habiliments. “A man in a fur coat is a noble animal,” he said, with deep conviction. “Is the carriage there?” * * * * * Canon Spratte was at his best in feminine society. He used women with a charming urbanity which reminded you of a past age when good manners were still cultivated by the great ones of the earth. There was a polite suppleness about his backbone, a caressing intonation of his voice, which captivated the least susceptible. He was an ornament to any party, for he never failed to say a clever thing at the necessary moment. He could flatter the young by his courtliness and amuse the old by his repartee. The triumphant air with which he entered the Hollingtons’ drawing-room sufficed to impress you with his powers. It was certainly an odd contrast between the flamboyant style of the Canon of Tercanbury and the clumsy shuffling of Lord Stonehenge, ill-dressed and untidy, who immediately followed.