"I do hope, my lord, you'll reconsider that," interrupted Sir Jekyl, laying his fingers kindly on the prelate's purple sleeve. A dismal cloud in Sir Jekyl's atmosphere was just then drifting over him, and he clung, as men do under such shadows, to the contact of good and early friendship.
"I am, I assure you, very sorry, and have enjoyed your hospitality much—very much; but we can't rest long, you know: we hold a good many strings, and matters won't wait our convenience."
"I'm only afraid you are overworked; but, of course, I understand how you feel, and shan't press," said Sir Jekyl.
"And I was looking for you to-day in the library," resumed the Bishop, "anxious for a few minutes, on a subject I glanced at when I arrived."
"I—I know," said Sir Jekyl, a little hesitatingly.
"Yes, the dying wish of poor Sir Harry Marlowe, your father," murmured the Bishop, looking into his claret-glass, which he slowly turned about by the stem; and, to do him justice, there was not a quarter of a glassful remaining in the bottom.
"I know—to be sure. I quite agree with your lordship's view. I wish to tell you that—quite, I assure you. I don't—I really don't at all understand his reasons; but, as you say, it is a case for implicit submission. I intend, I assure you, actually to take down that room during the spring. It is of no real use, and rather spoils the house."
"I am happy, my dear Sir Jekyl, to hear you speak with so much decision on the subject—truly happy;" and the venerable prelate laid his hand with a gentle dignity on the cuff of Sir Jekyl's dress-coat, after the manner of a miniature benediction. "I may then discharge that quite from my mind?"
"Certainly—quite, my lord. I accept your views implicitly."
"And the box—the other wish—you know," murmured the Bishop.