By a subtle and rapid movement he was, in a moment, outside the door and stood facing me in the little front garden of the post office.
“I shouldn’t wonder if they began tennis before tea,” he remarked.
“You’ll find somebody to play a single. Good-bye!” He was turning away eagerly when something occurred to me. “Oh, by the way, Mr Davenport——”
“Yes?”
“Do you think you’ll ever be a bishop really?”
“Only when I talk to her,” he said, with a confused yet candid modesty which I found agreeable.
“Go and do homage for your temporalities,” I said.
“I say—her mother!” whispered Mr Davenport.
“She probably thought the same when she married the vicar.”
He smiled. “That’s rather funny!” he cried back to me, as he started off along the road.