"Get a cup of tea, Hannah," I said.
"A cup of wha—at?" queried Hannah. She had the usual feminine contempt for men that drink tea.
"A cup of tea," I said decisively, "and don't be long."
"Oyeh!" said Hannah. But she brought in a few minutes later the tea and hot cakes that would make an alderman hungry, and two poached eggs on toast. I was awfully proud of my domestic arrangements. But I was puzzled. Hannah was not always so courteous. She explained next day.
"I didn't like him at all, at all," she said, "but whin I came out and saw his portmanty all brass knobs, and took up his rug, whew! it was that soft and fine it would do to wrap up the Queen, I said to myself, 'this is a gintleman, Hannah; who knows but he's the Bishop on his tower.'"
"I hope you like your tea?" I said.
"It's simply delicious," he answered.
He ate heartily. Poor fellow, he was hungry after a long drive; but he chewed every morsel as a cow would chew the cud on a lazy summer afternoon, without noise or haste, and he lifted my poor old china cup as daintily as if it were Sèvres. Then we fell to talking.
"I am afraid," I said tentatively, "that you'll find this place dull after your last mission. But have you been on the mission before?"
"Oh yes, Father," he said, "I thought the Bishop might have written to you."