The Canon rubbed his hands and laughed heartily.
It was no wonder that his humour was jovial, for he was enjoying already his relatives’ astonishment when they heard that Wroxham, most desirable of young men, wished to marry Winnie. He sent a note to his brother asking him very particularly to luncheon, but his sense of dramatic effect was far too keen to permit him even to hint that it was an occasion of peculiar solemnity.
“I shall point out to Sophia that she hasn’t used her sharp eyes to very good effect,” he muttered. “And if I’d depended on her to see Winnie happily married, I should have depended on a broken reed.”
Had he not foreseen it since the lad was fourteen, and nourished the scheme assiduously in his paternal heart? It was a triumph for a happy father. The thought of the world’s envy served nothing to decrease his complacency. The gay sunshine of May seemed to indicate that the universe at large shared and approved his self-satisfaction.
“Well, Sophia, did you see the notice about me in this morning’s paper?” he cried, as he went into the drawing-room to await Wroxham’s arrival.
“I’ve not had time to read it.”
“I wish you took more interest in me!” exclaimed the Canon, not without vexation. “It’s extraordinary that when there’s anything in the paper, every one sees it but my own family.”
“Please tell me what it is.”
He took up the newspaper and with due emphasis read:
“There is no truth in the rumour that Canon Spratte, Vicar of St. Gregory’s, South Kensington, has been appointed to the vacant bishopric of Barchester.”