“If not, he can pad,” replied Lady Sophia. “Most of them do, and those that don’t certainly should. A bishop must evidently be a man who can wear lawn sleeves without feeling dressed up. He’s a Prince of the Church, and he should carry himself becomingly. I don’t know if you’ve noticed it, but few of them can help purring with gratification when they hear themselves addressed by obsequious clergy as, my lord. Theodore at least will carry his honours with a dash. We may be _parvenus_....” “We certainly are, Sophia,” cried Lord Spratte. “But Theodore is clever enough to forget it. He honestly feels that his ancestors fought in coats-of-mail at Agincourt and Crecy.” “Heaven save me from the candid criticism of relations,” exclaimed Mrs. Fitzherbert. “They’re like a bad looking-glass which gives you an atrocious squint and a crooked nose.” “We shall have to eat the dust, Sophia,” muttered Lord Spratte. “The whole diocese will have to eat the dust,” she answered, smiling. “Theodore will stand no nonsense from his clergy; they’ll have to do as he tells them or there’ll be ructions. Theodore is not soft-handed, and he’ll get his own way by hook or by crook. You’ll see, in five years it’ll be the best-managed bishopric in England, and an invitation to dinner at the Palace will be considered by every one a sufficient reward for the labours of Hercules.” Mrs. Fitzherbert laughed, and at that moment the subject of the conversation appeared. He greeted Mrs. Fitzherbert with extreme cordiality, but to his brother, not forgetful of the terms upon which they had parted, he held out a very frigid hand. “I must congratulate you on Winnie’s engagement,” said Lord Spratte. Canon Spratte looked at him coolly and passed his handsome hand through his hair. “I’m sorry to see that your levity grows more marked every day, Thomas. It seems that increasing years bring you no sense of your responsibilities. I used to hope that your flippancy was due chiefly to the exuberance of youth.” “It shows what a charmin’ character I have to stand bein’ ragged by my younger brother,” murmured Lord Spratte, calmly. He turned to Mrs. Fitzherbert. “I hate far more the relations who think it their duty to say unpleasant things to your very face.” “You forget that it’s my name as well as yours that you drag through the dust.” “The name of Spratte?” “It was held by the late Lord Chancellor of England,” retorted the Canon, icily. “Oh, Theodore, don’t bring him in again. I’m just about sick of him. It’s been the curse of my life to be the son of an eminent man. After all it was a beastly job that they stuck him on that silly Woolsack.” “Have you never heard the saying: ‘_De mortuis nil nisi bonum_’?” “That means: don’t pull an old buffer’s leg when he’s kicked the bucket,” explained Lord Spratte to the two ladies. The Canon shrugged his shoulders. “You have no sense of decorum, no seemliness, no dignity.”