At dinner the prelate, who sat beside Lady Alice, conversed in the same condescending spirit, and with the same dignified humility, upon all sorts of subjects—upon the new sect, the Huggletonians, whom, with doubtful originality, but considerable emphasis, he likened to "lost sheep."
"Who's lost his sheep, my lord?" inquired Sir Paul Blunket across the table.
"I spoke metaphorically, Sir Paul. The Huggletonians, the sheep who should have been led by the waters of comfort, have been suffered to stray into the wilderness."
"Quite so—I see. Shocking name that—the Huggletonians. I should not like to be a Huggletonian, egad!" said Sir Paul Blunket, and drank some wine. "Lost sheep, to be sure—yes; but that thing of bringing sheep to water—you see—it's a mistake. When a wether takes to drinking water, it's a sign he's got the rot."
The Bishop gently declined his head, and patiently allowed this little observation to blow over.
Sir Paul Blunket, having delivered it, merely added, after a decent pause, as he ate his dinner—
"Dartbroke mutton this—five years old—eh?"
"Yes. I hope you like it," answered his host.
Sir Paul Blunket, having a bit in his mouth, grunted politely—
"Only for your own table, though?" he added, when he'd swallowed it.