“There you’re wrong, but I won’t argue it out. Well, I went in and found twenty old buffers lying about on red benches. Half of them were asleep, and one was mumblin’ away in his beard. ‘Good Lord,’ I said, ‘who are their tailors?’ Then I said to myself: ‘Shall I stay here and listen to their twaddle or shall I get my hat wet?’ Suddenly I had an inspiration. ‘By Jove,’ I thought, ‘I’ll take a cab.’ ”
“And that, Sophia, is the head of our house!” said the Canon, in icy tones. “Thomas, second Earl Spratte of Beachcombe.”
But these words were hardly out of his mouth, when there was a noisy ring at the bell of the front-door.
Canon Spratte started nervously. He collected himself to receive the expected messenger. Then came the sound of voices in the hall, and the Canon put up his hand to request silence.
“Who can that be?” he asked.
Some one was heard running up the stairs and the door was burst open by Lionel, for once in his life hurried and disturbed.
“Oh, it’s only you!” said Canon Spratte, unable to conceal his disappointment. “I don’t know why on earth you ring the bell as though the house were on fire.”
But Lionel waited to make no excuses.
“I say, father, is it true about Barchester?”
“Is what true?” he asked, uncertain whether to be triumphant or dismayed.