“This is the rector, Lord Dynmore,” said the archdeacon in an uncertain, puzzled way.
“No, no, no, no,” replied the great man fretfully. “I mean the old rector—my old friend.”
“He has forgotten that poor Mr. Williams is dead,” Laura murmured to her mother, amid the general pause of astonishment.
He overheard her. “Nothing of the kind, young lady!” he answered irritably. “Nothing of the kind. Bless my soul, do you think I do not know whom I present to my own livings? My memory is not so bad as that! I thought this gentleman was Lindo’s curate, that was all. That was all.”
They stared at one another in awkward silence. The rector was the first to speak. “I am afraid we are somehow at cross purposes still, Lord Dynmore,” he stammered, his manner constrained. “I am not my own curate—well, because I am myself Reginald Lindo, whom you were kind enough to present to this living.”
“To Claversham, do you mean?”
“Yes.”
“And do you say you are Reginald Lindo?” The peer grew very red in the face as he put this question.
“Yes, certainly I am.”
“Then, sir, I say that certainly you are not!” was the rapid and startling answer. “Certainly you are not! You are no more Reginald Lindo than I am!” the peer repeated, striking his hand upon the table by his side. “What do you mean by saying that you are, eh? What do you mean by it?”