Now the hall-door opened. The Rev. Isaac Dixie—for his dress was a compromise between modesty and extreme haste, and necessarily very imperfect—stood in greater part behind the hall-door; a bed-room candlestick in his fingers, smiling blandly on his "distinguished pupil," who entered without a smile, without a greeting—merely saying:—
"Where shall we sit down for a minute, old Dixie?"
Holding his hand with the candle in it across, so as to keep his flowing dressing-gown together; and with much wonder and some misgivings, yet contriving his usual rosy smile, he conducted his unexpected visitor into his "study."
"I've so many apologies to offer, my very honoured and dear friend; this is so miserable, and I fear you are cold. We must get something; we must, really, manage something—some little refreshment."
Dixie placed the candle on the chimney-piece, and looked inquiringly on Cleve.
"There's some sherry, I know, and I think there's some brandy."
"There's no one up and about?" inquired Cleve.
"Not a creature," said the Rector; "no one can hear a word, and these are good thick walls."
"I've only a minute; I know you'd like to be a bishop, Dixie?"
Cleve, with his muffler and his hat still on, was addressing the future prelate, with his elbow on the chimney-piece.