"My dear Ronder! But this is delightful. A little early for tea, perhaps. Indeed, my wife is, for the moment, out. What do you say to the library?"
Ronder had nothing to say against the library, and into it they went. A fine room with books in leather bindings, high windows, an oil painting of the Canon as a smart young curate, a magnificent writing-table, The Spectator and The Church Times near the fireplace, and two deep leather arm-chairs. Into these last two the clergymen sank.
Bentinck-Major put his fingers together, crossed his admirable legs, and looked interrogatively at his visitor.
"I'm lucky to catch you at home," said Ronder. "This isn't quite the time to call, I'm afraid. But the fact is that I want some advice."
"Quite so," said his host.
"I'm not a very modest man," said Ronder, laughing. "In fact, to tell you the truth, I don't believe very much in modesty. But there are times when it's just as well to admit one's incompetence. This is one of them--"
"Why, really, Canon," said Bentinck-Major, wishing to give the poor man encouragement.
"No, but I mean what I say. I don't consider myself a stupid man, but when one comes fresh into a place like this there are many things that one can't know, and that one must learn from some one wiser than oneself if one's to do any good."
"Oh, really, Canon," Bentinck-Major repeated. "If there's anything I can do--".
"There is. It isn't so much about the actual details of the work that I want your advice. Hart-Smith has left things in excellent condition, and I only hope that I shall be able to keep everything as straight as he has done. What I really want from you is some sort of bird's-eye view as to the whole situation. The Chapter, for instance. Of course, I've been here for some months now and have a little idea as to the people in the place, but you've been here so long that there are many things that you can tell me."