Marchmont, having started the rest of the people on their lunch and made all feel at their ease, turned on his journalistic tap for the benefit of the Bishop, and plied the old gentleman with such a judicious mixture of flattery and amusing anecdote that, by the time the repast was over, his Lordship was solemnly assuring his son, much to that young gentleman's disgust, that he was indeed fortunate in possessing such a delightful friend, and that he might invite Mr. Marchmont to the palace if he liked.
"Quite so," said Cecil. "I suppose you remember his article in the Daily Leader, in which he alluded to you as a 'consecrated fossil'?"
"H'm!" said the Bishop. "Really, the accommodation at the inn is very good, and perhaps, with so many guests, it would be asking too much of your aunt."
"What does all this mean?" asked Spotts of Banborough when a convenient opportunity offered.
The Bishop's son shrugged his shoulders, replying:
CHAPTER III.
IN WHICH PEACE IS PROPOSED AND WAR DECLARED.
Marchmont stood on the lawn before the palace, on the morning after his arrival, critically inspecting that structure; his feet stretched wide apart, his hands in his pockets, and his hat on the back of his head.