"Limited imagination, my lord."
"Well-bred English people never have imagination, Bunter."
"Certainly not, my lord. I meant nothing disparaging."
"Well, Bunter—oh, lord! there's a reporter! Hide me, quick!"
"In here, my lord."
Mr. Bunter whisked his master into the cool emptiness of the Cathedral.
"I venture to suggest, my lord," he urged in a hurried whisper, "that we adopt the attitude and external appearance of prayer, if your lordship will excuse me."
Peeping through his fingers, Lord Peter saw a verger hastening towards them, rebuke depicted on his face. At that moment, however, the reporter entered in headlong pursuit, tugging a note-book from his pocket. The verger leapt swiftly on this new prey.
"The winder h'under which we stand," he began in a reverential monotone, "is called the Seven Sisters of York. They say—"
Master and man stole quietly out.