He had a vivid imagination, and already saw this portrait in the Academy, on the line. It was surrounded by a crowd. Evidently it would be the picture of the year, for he felt himself capable of inspiring the painter with his own vigorous personality. He saw the country cousins and the strenuous inhabitants of Suburbia turn to their catalogues, and read: THE RIGHT REVEREND THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER. At the private view he saw people, recognizing him from the excellent portrait, point him out to one another. He saw his own little smile of amusement when he stood perchance for a moment in front of it, and the onlookers with rapid glance compared the original with the counterfeit. Already he marked the dashing brushwork and he fancied the painter’s style suited admirably with his peculiar characteristics. He liked the shining, stiff folds of black satin, the lawn sleeves, and the delicate lace of the ruffles, the rich scarlet of his hood. He imagined the attitude of proud command which befitted a Prince of the Church, the fearless poise of the head, the firm face and the eagle eye. He would look every inch a bishop. “How true it is that some are born to greatness!” he muttered. “I shall leave it to the National Portrait Gallery in my will.” And then, if he survived his brother, he thought with a vainglorious tremor of the describing tablet: “Theodore, 3rd Earl Spratte of Beachcombe, and Lord Bishop of Barchester.” His cheeks were flushed and his eyes sparkled, for verily he was drunk with pride. His heart beat so that it was almost painful. With swinging step he sprang up the stairs and danced into the drawing-room like a merry West Wind. The second Earl Spratte, however, was still in the best of health. “Ah, my dear brother, I’m delighted to see you,” cried the Canon, and his voice rang like a joyous bell. “For once in a way, Theodore. I was about to ask Sophia if you’d arranged about paddin’ the gaiters yet?” “Ha, ha, you will have your little joke, Tom.” He had not used this diminutive since his brother succeeded to the title, and Lady Sophia stared at him with astonishment. “We Sprattes have always had a keen sense of humour. And what does the head of my house think of all these matrimonial schemes?” “I’ve really half a mind to follow suit.” “Who is the charmer now, Thomas? Does she tread the light fantastic toe in the ballet at the Empire, or does she carol in a Gaiety chorus?” “I have an idea that your brother Theodore is mildly facetious to-day,” said the other gravely to Lady Sophia. The Canon burst out laughing and jovially rubbed his hands. “You must marry money, my boy.” “I would like a shot if I could. What I object to is marryin’ a wife.” “One can never get money in this world without some drawback.” Lord Spratte looked at his brother with a dry smile. “How green and yellow you’d turn, Theodore, if I did marry!”