"You don't know me?" said Seymour, holding out his hand.
"I beg your pardon, I——" said Canon Lasher.
"Seymour—Hugh Seymour—whom you were once kind enough to look after at Clinton St. Mary."
"Why! Fancy! Indeed. My dear boy. My dear boy!" Mr. Lasher was immensely cordial in exactly his old, healthy, direct manner. He insisted that Seymour should come with him and drink a cup of tea. Mrs. Lasher would be delighted. They had often wondered.... Only the other day Mrs. Lasher was saying.... "And you're one of our novelists, I hear," said Canon Lasher in exactly the tone that he would have used had Seymour taken to tight-rope walking at the Halls.
"Oh, no!" said Seymour, laughing, "that's another man of my name. I'm at the Bar."
"Ah," said the Canon, greatly relieved, "that's good! That's good! Very good indeed!"
Mrs. Lasher was, of course, immensely surprised. "Why! Fancy! And it was only yesterday! Whoever would have expected! I never was more astonished! And tea just ready! How fortunate! Just fancy you meeting the Canon!"
The Canon seemed, to Seymour, greatly mellowed by comfort and prosperity; there was even the possibility of corpulence in the not distant future. He was, indeed, a proper Canon.
"And who," said Seymour, "has Clinton St. Mary now?"
"One of the Trenchards," said Mr. Lasher. "As you know, a very famous old Glebeshire family. There are some younger cousins of the Garth Trenchards, I believe. You know of the Trenchards of Garth? No? Ah, very delightful people. You should know them. Yes, Jim Trenchard, the man at Clinton, is a few years senior to myself. He was priest when I was deacon in—let me see—dear me, how the years fly—in—'pon my word, how time goes!"