"Oh, that's all right," said Ronder, laughing. "This drive comes worse on you than myself, I fancy. You're bonier.... What a splendid figure the Bishop is! A great man--really, a great man. There's something about a man of that simplicity and purity of character that we lesser men lack. Something out of our grasp altogether."
"You haven't known him very long, I think," said Brandon, who considered himself in no way a lesser man than the Bishop.
"No, I have not," said Ronder, pleasantly amused at the incredible ease with which he was able to make the Archdeacon rise. "I've never been to Carpledon before to-day. I especially appreciated his inviting me when he was having so old a friend as yourself."
Another silence. Ronder looked about him; the afternoon was hot, and little beads of perspiration formed on his forehead. One trickled down his forehead, another into his eye. The road, early in the year though it was, was already dusty, and the high Glebeshire hedges hid the view. The irritation of the heat, the dust and the sense that they were enclosed and would for the rest of their lives jog along, thus, knee to knee, down an eternal road, made Ronder uncomfortable; when he was uncomfortable he was dangerous. He looked at the fixed obstinacy of the Archdeacon's face and said:
"Poor Morrison! So he's gone. I never knew him, but he must have been a fine fellow. And the Pybus living is vacant."
Brandon said nothing.
"An important decision that will be--I beg your pardon. That's my knee again.
"It's to be hoped that they will find a good man."
"There can be only one possible choice," said Brandon, planting his hands flat on his knees.
"Really!" said Ronder, looking at the Archdeacon with an air of innocent interest. "Do tell me, if it isn't a secret, who that is."