"The same thing," he said, "my dear Gerald, the same sort of thing."
Lord Hayle looked up at his father.
"Yes," he answered, "what fools these journalists are!"
"No, my dear boy, they are not fools. When they have anything to write about, they write about it rather well. When they haven't, of course they must manufacture."
"A confounded swindle, I call it!" said Lord Hayle.
The bishop did not answer. He remembered how much he owed to the press of London and the provinces for his advancement in the Church.
"Well," Lord Hayle said, "I shall go up-stairs, father, to my own room and have a tub and a pipe, and think the whole thing over. I suppose we may hear something from Sir Anthony at dinner to-night."
"My dear boy," the bishop replied, "I'm sure I hope so."
Lord Hayle had already risen from his seat, and was walking towards the door of the library when the butler entered once more. He bore a silver salver, upon which was a card, and went straight up to Lord Camborne.