“Our August friend tarries!” quoth the Bishop of ———-, with his hands folded across his capacious stomach. “I fear the turbot your lordship spoke of may not be the better for the length of the trial.”
“Poor fellow!” said the Earl of ————, slightly yawning.
“Whom do you mean?” asked Lord Mauleverer, with a smile,—“the bishop, the judge, or the turbot?”
“Not one of the three, Mauleverer,—I spoke of the prisoner.”
“Ah, the fine dog! I forgot him,” said Mauleverer. “Really, now you mention him, I must confess that he inspires me with great compassion; but, indeed, it is very wrong in him to keep the judge so long!”
“Those hardened wretches have such a great deal to say,” mumbled the bishop, sourly.
“True!” said Mauleverer; “a religious rogue would have had some bowels for the state of the church esurient.”
“Is it really true, Mauleverer,” asked the Earl of ———, “that Brandon is to succeed?”
“So I hear,” said Mauleverer. “Heavens, how hungry I am!”
A groan from the bishop echoed the complaint.