“Yes,” answered the curate.
But the curtness of his reply was almost injurious contrasted with his father’s florid delivery; it seemed barely decent to treat in monosyllables with the Vicar of St. Gregory’s. His lightest observations were coloured by that rich baritone so that they gained a power and a significance which other men, less happily gifted, have only in treating of grave affairs.
“I often wonder it’s worth your while to marry quite poor people,” suggested Lord Spratte. “Why don’t you send them down to the East End?”
“Our duty, my dear Thomas, we have to do our duty,” replied Canon Spratte.
Ponsonby, entering the room to intimate that luncheon was ready, looked significantly at Lady Sophia, without speaking, and silently withdrew.
“I see that the Bishop of Barchester is dangerously ill,” said Lionel, when they were seated.
Lionel was as tall and fair as his father, but lacked his energy and his force of character. He was dressed as little like a clergyman as possible.
“I’m told he’s dying,” answered the Canon, gravely. “He’s been out of health for a long time, and I cannot help thinking that when the end comes it will be a happy release.”
“I met him once and thought him a very brilliant man,” remarked Lady Sophia.
“Andover?” cried the Canon, with surprise, throwing himself back in his chair. “My dear Sophia! I know he had a certain reputation for learning, but I never had any great opinion of it.”