The Prime Minister meditated for some time upon the officiousness of his colleague. “I like my bishops tedious and rather old,” he said, at last. “Then their clergy give them plenty to do, and they don’t meddle with the Government.” “Canon Spratte is such a staunch Conservative. He even speaks at Primrose Meetings.” “He’ll only work for us as long as it pays him,” said Lord Stonehenge, reflectively. “Oh, papa, he’d never become a Radical. He’s too anxious to be a gentleman.” “I prefer a Radical to a Liberal Unionist,” replied the Prime Minister, with some bitterness. “I must ask Vanhatton whether I definitely committed myself.” VI Next morning Canon Spratte awoke in the best of humours, and determined to chaff Lionel good-naturedly about this attachment of which he had become cognisant. He felt relieved, on the whole, that his only son had done no worse. It was much against his father’s wish that the prospective heir to the peerage went into the Church, which none knew better than the Canon was no longer an eligible profession. Considering the position Lionel must one day occupy, Canon Spratte suggested that he should enter the diplomatic service or the Guards, but the boy had inherited his mother’s lack of ambition rather than his father’s spirit. For years the Canon had noted with irritation this timid and retiring temper. He could never understand why a man should sidle down a secluded alley when he might saunter along the sunny side of Piccadilly, and he could not help looking upon his son as something of a milksop. It would not have surprised him if Lionel had announced his desire to marry the daughter of a country clergyman. But money was more necessary than anything else to the Sprattes. The second earl had inherited all the Chancellor had to leave, and was understood never to have practised rigid economy. Theodore, finding a considerable expenditure necessary to his importance, had never been able to save a penny. “Well, my boy, I hear that in spring a young man’s fancy turns lightly to thoughts of love,” he said, when Lionel bade him good-morning. The curate looked at him with a start and reddened. Canon Spratte burst out laughing. “A little bird has whispered to me that Master Cupid has been busy with you, Lionel. Come, come, you must have no secrets from your old father. Why have you never brought the girl to see Sophia?” “I really don’t know what you mean.” “Are you going to deny that you have cast a favourable eye upon Miss Gwendolen Durant?” The renewal of colour upon Lionel’s fair cheek assured the Canon that Mrs. Fitzherbert’s surmise was eminently correct. “I like her very much, father,” admitted Lionel, after some hesitation, “but I’ve not said anything to her. I have no reason to believe that she cares for me at all.”