[He is; and goes out.]
ROBERT. 'Ere! Did 'e say bishop?
MANSON. Yes.
ROBERT. Comin' 'ere? Now?
[MANSON nods his head to each inquiry.]
Well, I ain't agoin' ter leave my sossingers, not if 'e was a bloomin' archangel, see!
[ROGERS, still jiggered, ushers in JAMES PONSONBY MAKESHYFTE, D.D., the Most Reverend the Lord Bishop of Lancashire. He looks his name, his goggles and ear-trumpet lending a beautiful perfection to the resemblance.]
[MANSON has risen: ROBERT, imperturbable, discusses sossingers:
ROGERS, with a last excruciation of his ailment, vanishes.]
[The Most Reverend Father in God stands blinking for recognition. Pained at the non-fulfilment of this worthy expectation, he moves—a little blindly—towards the table. Here he encounters the oppugnant back of the voracious ROBERT, who grows quite annoyed. Indeed, be as good as says so.]
'Ere, where ye comin' to?