“He’ll be a great loss and most difficult to replace,” he continued. “They say he was the most learned of our bishops. I was excessively distressed when I heard of the sad event.”
“What did he die of?” asked the Prime Minister, indifferently.
“Oh, he was a very old man,” promptly replied the other, who had no idea to what fell disease the late Bishop of Barchester had succumbed. “My own conviction is that bishops ought to retire like ambassadors. A bishop should be a man of restless strength, active and versatile; he should be ready to put his hand to anything. To be a bishop you want as much energy and resource as if you were manager of the Army and Navy Stores.”
“Who is the manager of the Army and Navy Stores?” asked Lord Stonehenge.
Theodore Spratte smiled politely, but thought none the less that the Prime Minister was growing very stupid.
“Thank heaven, I shall never be as fat as that,” he said to himself, and added aloud: “I believe Andover was appointed by Mr. Gladstone.”
“How very large these grapes are!” said Lord Stonehenge, looking heavily at the dish of fruit in front of him.
“Yes,” said the Canon undisturbed, “my father, the Chancellor, used to grow very fine grapes at Beachcombe. You know, of course, that he held very decided views about the political opinions of the bishops.”
A slight movement went through the Prime Minister’s colossal frame, like a peristaltic wave passing along the coiled length of a boa-constrictor. Canon Spratte seemed to him like an agile fly that settled on every exposed place, and alit elsewhere as soon as it was brushed away. Just as all roads lead to Rome, every comment that Lord Stonehenge made appeared to bear directly upon the vacant See.
“And I cannot help thoroughly agreeing with him,” proceeded the Canon. “My view is that the bishops should be imbued with Conservative principles. The episcopal bench, I always think, should be a stronghold of Tory tradition, and if you come to think of it, the very nature of things accords with my conviction.”