"To-day she has a little headache," said Brandon. "But it's really nothing." "Well," said Ronder. "I've been wondering whether there isn't some thunder in the air. I've been feeling it oppressive myself." "It does get oppressive," said Brandon, "this time of the year in Glebeshire--especially South Glebeshire. I've often noticed it." "What we want," said Ronder, "is a good thunderstorm to clear the air." "Just what we're not likely to get," said Brandon. "It hangs on for days and days without breaking." "I wonder why that is," said Ronder; "there are no hills round about to keep it. There's hardly a hill of any size in the whole of South Glebeshire." "Of course, Polchester's in a hollow," said Brandon. "Except for the Cathedral, of course. I always envy Lady St. Leath her elevation." "A fine site, the Castle," said Ronder. "They must get a continual breeze up there." "They do," said Brandon. "Whenever I'm up there there's a wind." This most edifying conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the Reverend Charles Ponting. Mr. Ponting was very long, very thin and very black, his cadaverous cheeks resembling in their colour nothing so much as good fountain-pen ink. He spoke always in a high, melancholy and chanting voice. He was undoubtedly effeminate in his movements, and he had an air of superior secrecy about the affairs of the Bishop that people sometimes found very trying. But he was a good man and a zealous, and entirely devoted to his lord and master. "Ha! Archdeacon.... Ha! Canon. His lordship will be down in one moment. He has asked me to make his apologies for not being here to receive you. He is just finishing something of rather especial importance."