pton."

The Bishop was delighted. Miss Matilda never accepted him at his own
valuation.

"So, just on your account," continued his companion demurely, "I won't
say a word, though I hate any form of concealment."

"H'm--naturally," said the Bishop.

"But since it's for your dear sister's sake--"

"We'll take the eleven-fifty train to-morrow," replied his Lordship.

And here his remarks were cut short from the fact that in suddenly
rounding a corner he had planted his foot on the recumbent form of
Marchmont.

"Hullo!" said that gentleman, sitting up, and adding, as he rubbed his
eyes to get them wider open, "permit me to inform you that this part of
the ground is strictly preserved."

"Who are you, sir?" demanded the Bishop.

"Come," said the stranger cheerfully, "we'll make a bargain. I'll tell
you who you are, if you'll tell me who I am."

"I do not see how that is possible--" began his Lordship.

"Well, I'll begin," said Marchmont. "You're the Bishop of Blanford and
I'm your son's greatest benefactor."

"Really, you surprise me. May I enquire how you've benefited him?"

"I made the fame of his book, 'The Purple Kangaroo.' I've been sending
you my editorials on the subject for some weeks past."

"Are you the person who wrote those scandalous leaders which have been
forwarded to me from America?" demanded the Bishop.

"I thought you'd remember them," said the journalist. "They're
eye-openers, aren't they?"

His Lordship drew himself up and put on his most repressive manner, but
Marchmont babbled on serenely.

"The last time I saw Cecil he said to me: 'Whenever you come to England,
Marchmont, you just drop round to the palace, and we'll make things
hum.' So, having a chance for a little vacation, I jumped on board a
steamer, crossed to Southampton, and biked up-country, doing these ruins
on the way. I meant to have presented myself at the palace this
afternoon in due form and a swallow-tailed coat, but I'm just as much
pleased to see you as if I'd been regularly introduced."

"You're one of the most consummate liars I ever knew," remarked Cecil,
who, hearing voices, had strolled over to see what it was all about.

"Put it more mildly, my dear fellow," replied the American. "Call me a
journalist, and spare your father's feelings."

"Well, now you're here, what do you intend to do?" demanded Banborough.

"Do?" said Marchmont. "Why, I'm going to put up for a week at your 'Pink
Pig,' or your 'Azure G