riffin,' or whatever kind of nondescript-coloured
animal your local hostelry boasts, and study your charming cathedral.
But, in the first place, I think we'd better have some lunch. I'm as
hungry as a bear."

"I fear we've scarcely provided for an extra guest," returned Cecil
frigidly. The journalist was the very last person he wanted to see at
Blanford, and he did not take any pains to disguise the fact.

Marchmont, however, was not to be snubbed, and remarking cheerfully that
there was always enough for one more, calmly proceeded in the direction
of the hampers. Once there, he constituted himself chef and butler
forthwith, and moreover proved so efficient in both capacities that,
irritated as his friend was at his self-assurance, he could not but
express his appreciation.

Marchmont, having started the rest of the people on their lunch and made
all feel at their ease, turned on his journalistic tap for the benefit
of the Bishop, and plied the old gentleman with such a judicious mixture
of flattery and amusing anecdote that, by the time the repast was over,
his Lordship was solemnly assuring his son, much to that young
gentleman's disgust, that he was indeed fortunate in possessing such a
delightful friend, and that he might invite Mr. Marchmont to the palace
if he liked.

"Quite so," said Cecil. "I suppose you remember his article in the
_Daily Leader_, in which he alluded to you as a 'consecrated fossil'?"

"H'm!" said the Bishop. "Really, the accommodation at the inn is very
good, and perhaps, with so many guests, it would be asking too much of
your aunt."

"What does all this mean?" asked Spotts of Banborough when a convenient
opportunity offered.

The Bishop's son shrugged his shoulders, replying:

"It means mischief."

CHAPTER III.

IN WHICH PEACE IS PROPOSED AND WAR DECLARED.

Marchmont stood on the lawn before the palace, on the morning after his
arrival, critically inspecting that structure; his feet stretched wide
apart, his hands in his pockets, and his hat on the back of his head.

Cecil, emerging from breakfast, sighted his enemy and made haste to join
him.

"Jolly old rookery you've got," remarked the reporter.

"Yes," said Banborough. "It was a monastery originally. They turned it
into a bishop's palace about the reign of Henry VIII."

"I know that style," said the American. "Nice rambling ark, two stories
high, and no two rooms on the same level. Architect built right out into