"You have certainly not ruled all these years for nothing. They were honest fellows, and made it pretty plain that they loved you. It does not rankle, I hope?"
"No." Master Blanchminster drew another deep breath and emitted it as if expelling the last cloudy thought of resentment. "No," he repeated; "I believe I may say that it rankles no longer. They are honest fellows—I am glad you perceived that."
"One could read it in all of them, saving perhaps that odd fellow who acted as spokesman. Brother—er—Copas?… He lectured me straightly enough, but there is always a disposition to suspect an eccentric."
"He was probably the honestest man in the room," answered Master Blanchminster with some positiveness.
"I am the more glad to hear it," said the Bishop, "because meeting a man of such patent capacity brought so low—"
"I assure you, he doesn't even drink—or not to excess," the Master assured him.
They were passing under the archway of the Porter's Lodge.
"But hallo!" said the Bishop, as they emerged upon the great quadrangle, "what in the world is going on yonder?"
Again, as the Master had viewed it many hundreds of times, the sunset shed its gold across the well-kept turf between long shadows cast by the chimneys of the Brethren's lodgings. As usual, in the deep shadow of the western front were gathered groups of inmates for the evening chat. But the groups had drawn together into one, and were watching a child who, solitary upon the grass-plot, paced through a measure before them 'high and disposedly.'
"Brayvo!" shrilled the voice of Mrs. Royle, champion among viragoes. "Now, at the turn you come forward and catch your skirts back before you curtchey!"