"He would count it a service," I answered, with a clumsy effort to retrieve the mistake. "For my part, Father, I refused it."
"Precisely," said he. "He would count it a service he was doing you. There are no fine feathers in our army, and there is no leisure to parade them were there any. Yes, Lord Bolingbroke would count it a service he was doing you."
Now, although the relationship between Lord Bolingbroke and myself was the merest thread—my father having married a niece of Lady Joanna St. John—I was well enough acquainted with his diligence to know that the sneer was unjust; and I was preparing to make some rejoinder in a proper spirit of humility when the rector continued—
"It is of Lord Bolingbroke that I wish to speak to you. He is in Paris."
"In Paris, Father!" I exclaimed incredulously.
"In Paris. He came last night, and asks permission of me this morning that you should wait on him."
"Father," I cried, "you will give that permission?"
He shook his head over my eagerness and resumed his walk.
"Very well," he said at length, and he gave me Lord Bolingbroke's address. "You can go now," he added.
I waited no longer than sufficed to utter a brief word of thanks, and hurried towards the door.