said the actor. "It's about his ramshackle old church.
Well, I'll do my best--" But his assurances were cut short by the flow
of his Lordship's conversation.

"As I was saying, Mr. Spotts," he continued, "I should be much
interested to hear your American views on the subject of a clerestory."

"Sure," replied the actor, plunging recklessly. "I always believe in
having four clear stories at least, and in New York and Chicago we run
'em up as high as--" But here a premonitory kick from Cecil brought his
speech to an abrupt termination.

"Most astonishing," commented his Lordship. "I've never heard of more
than one."

"Oh, our Western churches are chock-full of new wrinkles."

"Of new--what? I don't understand. Another cup' of tea for you, Mrs.
Mackintosh? Certainly. We must pursue this subject at leisure, Mr.
Spotts."

The party now turned their attention to the repast, and the Bishop
proceeded to devote himself to Mrs. Mackintosh.

"I'm afraid," he said, when he had seen her sufficiently fortified with
tea containing a due allowance of sugar, and supplemented by a plateful
of cake which he had ordered to be brought as a practical substitute for
the scriptural calf--"I'm afraid you will find our simple life at
Blanford very dull."

"Dear sakes, no!" said that lady, hitching her chair up closer to the
Bishop for a confidential chat--an action on her part which elicited a
flashing glance of disapproval from Miss Matilda.

"I've heard all about you," she went on, "from your son Cecil. You don't
mind if I call him Cecil, do you? for I'm almost old enough to be his
mother. Well, as I was saying, when he told me about the cathedral and
the beeches and the rooks and you, all being here, hundreds of years
old--"

"Excuse me, madam," said his Lordship, "I'm hardly as aged as that."

"Of course I didn't mean you, stupid! How literal you English are!"

It is highly probable that in all the sixty years of his well-ordered
existence the Bishop of Blanford had never been called "stupid" by
anybody. He gasped, and the episcopal cross, and even the heavy gold
chain by which it depended from his neck, were unduly agitated. Then he
decided that he liked it, and determined to continue the conversation.

"When I thought of all that," said Mrs. Mackintosh, "I said to your son:
'Cecil,' said I, 'your father's like that old board fence in my back
yard; he needs a coat of whitewash to freshen him up, and I'm going over
to put it