'Had thought of being a bishop?' said Dr Proudie, much amazed.
'That is, a parson—a parson first, you know, and a bishop afterwards. If I had once begun, I'd have stuck to it. But, on the whole, I like the Church of Rome the best.'
The bishop could not discuss the point, so he remained silent.
'Now, there's my father,' continued Bertie; 'he hasn't stuck to it. I fancy he didn't like saying the same thing so often. By the bye, bishop, have you seen my father?'
The bishop was more amazed than ever. Had he seen his father? 'No,' he replied; he had not yet had the pleasure; he hoped he might; and, as he said so, he resolved to bear heavy on that fat, immoveable rector, if ever he had the power of doing so.
'He's in the room somewhere,' said Bertie, 'and he'll turn up soon.
By the bye, do you know much about the Jews?'
At last the bishop saw a way out. 'I beg your pardon,' said he; 'but I'm forced to go round the room.'
'Well—I believe I'll follow in your wake,' said Bertie. 'Terribly hot, isn't it?' This he addressed to the fat rector with whom he had brought himself into the closest contact. 'They've got this sofa into the worst possible part of the room; suppose we move it. Take care, Madeline.'
The sofa had certainly been so placed that those who were behind it found great difficulty in getting out;—there was but a narrow gangway, which one person could stop. This was a bad arrangement, and one which Bertie thought it might be well to improve.
'Take care, Madeline,' said he; and turning to the fat rector, added, 'Just help me with a slight push.'