“I certainly don’t,” replied Mrs. Fitzherbert, who till that day had never even heard of the distinguished pedagogue.
“I can’t see that he has any claim at all. He’s not a man of influence, he’s not even a man of birth. Nobody ever heard of his father, while mine will be celebrated as long as English history is read.”
“I can’t tell you how sorry and disappointed I am.”
Canon Spratte paused in his indignant promenade and waved his hand picturesquely towards the open window.
“Ah, my dear friend, don’t trouble yourself with my small annoyances. Go and have tea now; it will be bad for you if you keep it standing.”
“And you, dear Canon?”
“I will face the disappointment in the privacy of my own apartment.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert left him, and with a despondent sigh he turned to go into his study. His glance fell on his father’s portrait, and a thought came to him which in a layman might have expressed itself in the words:
“By Jove, if he were alive, he’d make ’em skip.”
He shrugged his shoulders, and passing a looking-glass, paused to observe himself. Meditatively he ran his fingers through his curly, abundant hair; and then, almost without thinking what he was about, took from his pocket a little comb and passed it through the disarranged locks.