“I thank Heaven that I’m not a vain man,” said the Canon, somewhat oratorically. “I may have faults; we all have faults. But I don’t think any one has ever accused me of vanity. When it was suggested that I should be offered the bishopric of Barchester, the thought came upon me as a surprise; but this I will confess, I don’t think I should have been out of place in that position. I have been mixed up with public affairs all my life, and I am used to authority. Nor can I help thinking that I deserve something of my country.” At this moment Ponsonby passed through the drawing-room to the little terrace outside the window. He bore on a silver tray of imposing dimensions a kettle and a tea-pot. “I told them to put tea outside,” said Lady Sophia. “I thought it would be pleasanter.” Lord Spratte and Lionel got up and with Lady Sophia passed through the large French window; but Mrs, Fitzherbert, seeing that the Canon made no sign of following, stopped at the threshold. “Won’t you come and have tea, Canon?” she asked. “Ah, my dear lady, at this moment I cannot think of tea. I could almost say that I shall never drink tea again.” “Poor Canon Spratte, I feel so sorry for you,” she smiled, half amused at his vexation, half tender because he was so like a spoiled child. He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s not for myself that I feel sorry, it’s for the people who have done this thing. It’s charming of you to sympathise with me.” He took her hand and pressed it. “I’ve often felt that you really understand me. It’s a dreadful thing to live surrounded by persons who don’t appreciate you. They say that no man is a prophet in his own country, and I have experienced that too. I’m glad you were here this afternoon, for you’ve seen how I’m surrounded by cynical laughter and by flippant vulgarity. They don’t understand me.” He sighed and smiled and patted the hand he held. “I don’t want to say anything against Sophia. I daresay she does her best, and in this world we must be thankful for small mercies, but she hasn’t the delicacy of sentiment necessary to understand a character like mine. Do you remember my wife, Mrs. Fitzherbert? She was an angel, wasn’t she? Loving, obedient, respectful, self-effacing! She was all that a wife should be. But she was taken from me. I shall never quite get over it.” “Now come and have tea,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert, disengaging her hand. “I know it’ll pull you together.” “Oh, I could touch nothing,” he cried, with a gesture of distaste. “I wouldn’t venture to say it to any one else, but to you who really understand me, I can say that if any man was fitted to be Bishop of Barchester I am he. Any one who knows me must be quite sure that it’s not for my own sake that I wanted it; but think of the wonderful opportunities for doing good that such a position affords! And they’ve given it to Gray!”