Spotts was now brought up, and introduced as a rising young architect of ecclesiastical tendencies, which delighted his Lordship immensely as there was nothing he liked better than to explain every detail of his cathedral to an appreciative listener.
"I've a bit of old dog-tooth I shall want you to look at to-morrow," said his host, "and there's some Roman tiling in the north transept that absolutely demands your attention."
Spotts smiled assent, but was evidently bewildered, and seizing the first opportunity that offered, asked Cecil in a low voice if his father took him for a dentist or a mason.
"For a dentist or a mason?" queried Banborough. "I don't understand."
"Well, anyway, he said something about looking after his old dog's teeth and attending to his tiles."
Cecil exploded in a burst of laughter, saying:
"That's only the architectural jargon, man. You must play the game."
"Oh, I see," said the actor. "It's about his ramshackle old church. Well, I'll do my best—" But his assurances were cut short by the flow of his Lordship's conversation.
"As I was saying, Mr. Spotts," he continued, "I should be much interested to hear your American views on the subject of a clerestory."
"Sure," replied the actor, plunging recklessly. "I always believe in having four clear stories at least, and in New York and Chicago we run 'em up as high as—" But here a premonitory kick from Cecil brought his speech to an abrupt termination.