But Brenton's mind was hungrily intent upon his paper. Not even two years of Catia's corrective moods had taught him to grasp the fact that she would never cease from her corrections until he had given evidence of writhing underneath their sting. It was not enough for her to have the last word; she must be left in a position to gloat upon its visible effect. Else, wherein lay the pleasure of having given it utterance? Brenton, with manlike unconsciousness of this great fact of feminine psychology, once more buried himself in his morning paper. Promptly and ruthlessly Catia exhumed him. "Scott," she said, with a petulance which she permitted herself but rarely, not so much for moral reasons as because the _Ladies' Galaxy_ had pronounced it bad for the complexion; "do put down that stupid paper and attend to me." "Yes, dear." And Brenton blinked a little, in the sudden change of focus demanded of his eyes. Catia only saw the blinking, and to herself she pronounced it a new and ugly mannerism. She did not take the trouble to notice the eyes themselves, to read the earnest desire to please her, written so plainly in their luminous gray depths. "Oh, do wake up!" she adjured him, with increasing impatience. "Scott, do you know you never really come to life till after breakfast? Can't you see I want to talk to you? Now do listen and answer me. What do you mean to do about this Saint Peter's matter?" "To do about it!" It was no especial wonder that the echo irritated Catia; and yet neither was it any especial wonder that Scott, in his astonishment, was betrayed into an echo of that sort. As yet, her meaning was opaque to him. "Yes, do about it," Catia echoed, in her turn. "They say there's sure to be a vacancy, and that it's a splendid place." "Who say?" Brenton queried cautiously. "All the convocation. Don't be a dunce and pretend, Scott. Anyway, I'm not a mole; I can see which way the weather vanes are pointing. They were all talking about it, while the convocation was going on. Ever so many of the wives spoke to me about it, and told me that you were the man who ought to have it." Quite tranquilly Brenton helped himself to more butter. "Then, knowing the Bishop's common sense, it seems highly probable to me that I shall be the man to get it," he responded. "You won't, unless you try for it," Catia assured him. He shook his head. The idea of ecclesiastical wirepulling was repugnant to his nature. "One doesn't try for things of that kind, Catia," he answered. "Then one doesn't get them," she retorted curtly. It was Brenton who broke the next period of silence. "Besides," he said, as if his sentences had followed each other without break; "I am not at all sure that my work here is done, by any means." "Scott!" Catia put on the cover of the sugar bowl with a defiant clash. "Surely, you don't mean to stay buried in this little hole much longer?" Once more his smile showed whimsical.