A WEEK later Canon Spratte lunched with Mrs. Fitzherbert to meet Sir John Durant and his daughter. The was a gentleman of fifty, and good-humoured, with a gold watch-chain spread widely over his capacious paunch. The few hairs that remained to him were arranged at over a shining . His face was broad and merry. His little eyes were bright with , and when anything diverted him, he laughed all over his body. He was not tall, and his legs were disproportionately short, so that the slim, elegant Canon towered over him in a way that gratified the one without the other. Sir John’s appearance great prosperity and a thorough satisfaction with the world at large. He knew that he made the best beer in England, and the British people knew it too, so he had good reason to be pleased with the state of things. He was a business man from top to toe, shrewd, blunt and , and he had no idea that there was anything disgraceful in his connection with trade.  
When they sat down to and the butler asked if he would drink hock or claret, the brewer turned to him and in a loud, brusque voice inquired whether there was no beer.
 
“I always drink it to show I have confidence,” he explained to the company in general. “It makes me fat, but I shouldn’t be worth my salt if I hesitated at a few more pounds avoirdupois at the call of duty. I’ve told the British public on fifty thousand hoardings to drink Durant’s Half-Crown Family Ale, and the British public do. The least they can expect of me is to follow their example.”
 
The Canon was somewhat taken aback by the frankness with which Sir John referred to the source of his large income, but he was a man of , and with a laugh insisted on trying that .
 
“What d’you think of it?” asked the brewer, when Canon Spratte at one had emptied his glass.
 
“Capital, capital!”
 
“I’ll send you some to-morrow. It’s good stuff, my dear Canon—as pure as mother’s milk, and it wouldn’t hurt a child. I’ve no patience with those brewers who are ashamed of the beer they make. Why, do you know, Lord Carbis won’t have it in his house, and when I stayed with him, I had to drink wine. The old fool doesn’t know that people only laugh at him. However many airs he puts on, he’ll never make them forget that he owes his title to stout and bitter. As far as I’m concerned, I don’t mind who knows that I started as a van boy. If I’ve built up the biggest connection in the trade, it’s to my own brains I owe it.”
 
Mrs. Fitzherbert laughed to herself when she saw the expression with which the Canon received this statement. His idea had been that Sir John belonged to the aristocracy of beerdom, with two or even three generations of gentlemen behind him who had prepared themselves for the manufacture of liquors by a career at Eton and at . It was fortunate that his of the brewer’s daughter had been satisfactory. She was quite pretty, with a whose colouring suggested the best of health; and her brown hair, rather abundant and waving naturally, grew low on the forehead in a way that Canon Spratte thought singularly attractive. He knew something about feminine costume, (there were few subjects of which the Canon was ignorant,) and he observed with satisfaction that she was clothed with taste and fashion. He had no patience with the women who dressed in a mode they thought , and he the which is termed rational. In a moment of expansion he had once told his daughter there were two things a woman should avoid like the seven deadly sins: she should never take her hair down and never wear a short skirt.
 
“A woman, like a cat, should always end in a tail,” said he.
 
Lastly, the Canon noticed that Gwendolen Durant’s handsome figure suggested that heirs would not be wanting to a union between herself and his son. This somewhat astonished him, for he would never have expected Lionel to set his affections on such a charming, but , young person. He could not for the life of him imagine why she should care for Lionel.
 
“She’s worth six of him, any day,” he muttered, “though I’m his father and shouldn’t think it.”
 
But there was no for taste; and if a girl, with a dowry of one hundred and fifty thousand pounds, chose to make an alliance with his family, he was willing to overlook a parent who would not let an indulgent world forget his indecent connection with honest labour. Canon Spratte had that charm of manner which led people, after ten minutes’ conversation, to feel they had known him all their lives; and freeing himself from the dowager, who had hitherto absorbed his attention, he turned to Miss Durant. He laid himself out to fascinate her, and they made great friends in the hour they sat side by side.
 
When the remaining guests had gone their ways, the Canon asked Mrs. Fitzherbert if he might stay a little longer.
 
“Of course,” she said. “Sit down and make yourself comfortable. You may smoke a cigarette.”
 
The day was warm and the sun shone brightly. Pale blinds kept out the brilliancy, and delicately the light in Mrs. Fitzherbert’s drawing-room. It looked singularly restful to Canon Spratte with its gay chintzes and masses of summer flowers. It formed a fit and elegant frame for Mrs. Fitzherbert, who looked handsomer than ever in an gown, all flounces and furbelows. Its airy grace filled him with content, and he thought that feminine society was really very . The world was a good place when you could sit in a pleasant drawing-room, away from the of ecclesiastical labours, on a summer afternoon, and talk to an old friend who was also a fascinating woman. Yet at home there was much to make him . For one thing he expected hourly a communication from the Prime Minister, offering the vacant See; and every time the bell of the street-door rang loudly, his heart leaped to his mouth. Almost unconsciously he assumed an attitude of , such as Cincinnatus at his plough might have used when the officers of the Republic came towards him. But Lord Stonehenge, as ever, hesitated to make an appointment. Winnie was an even greater source of . She made no sign of yielding to his wishes. She went out at all hours and none knew whither. She seemed to her legal independence in her father’s indignant face. At home she was silent, frightened and . Canon Spratte ignored her. He had the useful, humiliating art of looking at people without seeing them, and was able to stare at his daughter blankly as though the space she occupied were empty.
 
He told Mrs. Fitzherbert now the misfortune that had befallen his house, and it was a bitter that he had been too quick in his calculations. Mrs. Fitzherbert could not a smile.
 
“It’s really very romantic, you know. It reminds me of that poem of dear Lord Tennyson’s.”
 
“Dear Lord Tennyson hadn’t a marriageable daughter,” retorted the Canon, with some .
 
“Love is so rare in this world,” she hazarded, “When two young things are fond of one another, don’t you think it’s best to let them marry, whatever the disadvantages?”
 
“My dear lady, the man isn’t even a gentleman.”
 
“But we have it into our ears that kind hearts are more than coronets.”
 
“Yes, but we know very well that they’re nothing of the sort,” he retorted, with a laugh. “Heaven knows I’m not in the least mercenary, but I don’t think any man can make my daughter happy on a penny less than two thousand a year. It’s not love in a cottage, it’s not love in a palace, it’s just matrimony in Onslow Gardens.”
 
He for a moment or two, and slapped his knee.
 
“I promise you that Winnie shall break her foolish engagement with this ridiculous counter-jumper, and what’s more, she shall marry Wroxham. People must get up early in the morning if they want to get the better of Theodore Spratte.”
 
“Well, you’ll need some very to achieve all that,” smiled Mrs. Fitzherbert.
 
“The worst of it is, that though I rack my brains I can’t think of any scheme that seems to promise the least measure of success.”
 
Mrs. Fitzherbert looked at him, and her common-sense suggested to her certain obvious facts. She smiled again.
 
“Has Winnie seen the young man’s relations yet?” she asked.
 
“I think not. Sophia tells me she’s going down to Peckham to-morrow.”
 
“Didn’t you say that Mr. Railing’s mother was the widow of a coal-heaver? I wonder what she’s like.”
 
“His sister teaches in a Board School.”
 
“She must be an exemplary young person,” answered Mrs. Fitzherbert.
 
“Well?”
 
“They must be awful. I wonder if Winnie has thought of that.”
 
“By Jove!” cried the Canon.
 
The expression was not very clerical, but in his excitement he forgot the of which he was usually careful. His mind was excessively alert, and Mrs. Fitzherbert’s reflections, spoken almost at , gave him in a flash the plan of action he wanted. In such a manner, though with vastly less rapidity, Sir Isaac Newton is said to have discovered the theory of gravitation. The Canon’s scheme was so bold that it surprised him. When he turned it over, and saw how dangerous it was, how unexpected, above all how ingeniously dramatic, he could not restrain his enthusiasm. The caught his sense of humour, and at the same time flattered his love for power. he would withdraw from the struggle, but all the time the various actors would work his will. It was well worth the risk, and he felt certain of ultimate victory. He laughed aloud, and jumping up, seized Mrs. Fitzherbert’s hands.
 
“What a wonderful woman you are! You’ve saved the whole situation.”
 
He looked at her with flaming eyes, and as she smiled upon him, he had never found her handsomer. He still held her hands.
 
“You know, you grow better looking each year you grow older. Upon my soul, it’s not fair to the rest of us.”
 
“Don’t be so foolish,” she laughed, trying to withdraw from his grasp.
 
“Why shouldn’t I hold them?” he cried . “We’re old friends. Heaven knows how many years it is since first we met.”
 
“That’s just it, Heaven does know we’re both of us nearly fifty, and really ought to have learned how to behave by now.”
 
“Nonsense, I won’t believe a word of it. Every one knows that there is nothing so untruthful as Anno Domini, and I’m convinced that neither of us is a day more than thirty. You don’t look it, and I’m sure I don’t feel it.”
 
“You really must not press my hands so hard. I tell you it’s ridiculous.”
 
She blushed, and the Canon’s blue eyes were brighter than ever, as he noticed this sign of confusion.
 
“Do you remember how once we walked together in Kensington Gardens? We didn’t think ourselves ridiculous then.”
 
It was a tactless thing to say, but perhaps Theodore did not remember the exact circumstances so well as Mrs. Fitzherbert. She her lips as she recalled that last scene, and there was no doubt now that she wanted him to leave her hands.
 
“You’re hurting me,” she said. “My rings.”
 
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” He looked at her face. “But what have I said to annoy you?”
 
“Nothing,” she replied, with a smile, recovering herself quickly. “But my carriage has been waiting for an hour, and I really must go out.”
 
“Fool that I am! Why didn’t you send me away before?”
 
He down and kissed her fingers. It is a gesture which does not come very easily to an Englishman, but Theodore Spratte carried it off with peculiar grace, and afterwards was able to leave the room without awkwardness. He was not the man to omit any of the courtesies due to the fair sex, and turned his steps immediately to a fashionable florist’s, where he ordered a large bunch of red roses to be sent at once to Mrs. Fitzherbert.
 
“Red roses,” he wrote on his card, “because they are lovely, ephemeral, and sweet smelling!”
 
On the way home Canon Spratte meditated upon the bold, decisive step which alone seemed capable of bringing about the ends he had in view. It was easy enough to prevent Winnie from marrying Bertram Railing; her infatuation would pass away as soon as she realized all that it . But this was not enough. He knew that women may be often taken on the , (perhaps his opinion of the sex was none too high,) and if he could excite a repulsion from Railing, he fancied it would lead her into the open arms of the Wroxham. The Canon’s classical knowledge was somewhat , but he believed there was a which offered apt authority for the circumstances. He could not for the moment recall it.
 
“Dear me!” he said, rather , as he put the latchkey into his front door, “my memory is certainly failing,” and ironically: “It’s quite time they made me a .”
 
The Canon wished to lose no time, and consequently was much pleased to find Winnie and Lady Sophia sitting by themselves in the drawing-room. It would have been to expect him to play the neat little scene without the presence of his sister. The thought of her was almost a sufficient for his audacious step.
 
“You’re very pale, my dear child,” he said to Winnie, “I hope you’re not unwell?”
 
“No, father,” she answered, without a smile.
 
“Then what is troubling you, my love? You’re not yourself.”
 
None could put into his manner such affectionate as Canon Spratte, and his voice gained such tender accents as to draw confidences from the most . Winnie sighed, but made no reply. He stroked her hair and pressed her hand.
 
“Come, come, my darling, you mustn’t be unhappy. Nothing shall stand between you and my great affection. The only wish I have is for your welfare. Tell me , is your heart still set on marrying this young man?”
 
Winnie looked up gravely and nodded.
 
“Well, well, I’m not a hard father.” He smiled good-naturedly and opened his arms. “What would you say if I offered to withdraw my ?”
 
Winnie, astonished, scarcely believing her ears, sprang to her feet.
 
“Papa, do you mean that?”
 
She flung her arms round his neck and burst into tears. The Canon, pressing her to his , kissed her fair hair. But Lady Sophia was dumfounded.
 
“Now, my dear, go to your room and wash those tears away,” said he, with laughing tenderness. “You mustn’t have red eyes, or people will think I’m a perfect . But mind,” he shook his finger playfully as she smiled through her tears, “mind you don’t put too much powder on your nose.”
 
When Winnie was gone, Canon Spratte turned to his sister with a laugh.
 
“The dear girl! Our children, Sophia, are often a sore trial to us, but we must take the rough with the smooth; at times also they give us a great deal of self-satisfaction.”
 
“Did my ears deceive me?” asked Lady Sophia. “Or did you in fact consent to Winnie’s engagement?”
 
“You’re surprised, Sophia? You don’t know me; you can’t understand that I should sacrifice my most cherished ideas to gratify the of a silly school-girl. You’re a clever woman, Sophia—but you’re not quite so clever as your servant.”
 
Lady Sophia, trying to discover what was in his mind, leaned back in her arm-chair and looked at him with keen and eyes. She did not for one moment suppose that he had honestly surrendered to Winnie’s . It was her impression that Theodore was never more dangerous than when he appeared to be defeated.
 
“I don’t understand,” she confessed.
 
“I should have thought it was a match after your own heart,” he answered, with a mocking smile. “You have always to look down upon our family. Surely you ought to be pleased that the descendant of your ancestral green-grocer should marry the near connection of a coal-heaver. They pair like chalk and cheese.”
 
“Don’t talk nonsense, Theodore!”
 
“I wonder if she calls him Bertie,” murmured the Canon, thoughtfully.
 
“I wish to goodness you wouldn’t be so irritating,” said Lady Sophia, sharply. “Do you really intend Winnie to marry him?”
 
“Of course not, my dear. I intend Winnie to marry young Wroxham.”
 
“And do you think the best way to bring that about is to let her be engaged to somebody else?”
 
“My dear Sophia, have you ever known me make a mistake yet?”
 
“Frequently! Though I’m bound to say I’ve never known you acknowledge it.”
 
Canon Spratte laughed .
 
“It comes to the same thing. Like the typical Englishman, I never know when I’m beaten.”
 
“Good heavens, what a man it is!” she cried. “One can’t even remark that it’s a fine day without your extracting a compliment from it. Master Theodore, self-praise is no recommendation.”
 
“Miss Sophia, your nose wants blowing,” he retorted .
 
“That I think is rather vulgar, Theodore.”
 
Canon Spratte laughed again.
 
“That’s just like a woman; she hits you when you’re not looking, and when you defend yourself, she cries: ‘Foul play!’ ”
 
“Fiddlesticks!”
 
There was a pause, during which Lady Sophia, knowing how anxious the Canon was to tell her about Winnie, waited for him to speak; while he, equally aware of her curiosity, to utter no word till she gave him the satisfaction of asking. The lady lost patience first.
 
“Why, then, did you consent to Winnie’s engagement with the coal-heaver?” she asked, .
 
“Because I thought it the only way to induce her to marry Wroxham.”
 
“Upon my word, Theodore, you’re a very extraordinary man.”
 
“That, my dear, is a fact which has not entirely escaped my observation,” retorted Canon Spratte, rubbing his hands. “I’ve brought you to your knees, Sophia. Confess that this time your intelligence is at fault.”
 
“Nothing of the sort!”
 
“Well, well, I flatter myself——” he began.
 
“You frequently do,” interrupted his sister.
 
“I flatter myself that I know my daughter’s character. Now, I am convinced that if I had put my foot down, Winnie would have gone off and married the man there and then. But I know the Spratte character inside and out. We are a family of marked idiosyncrasies.”
 
“Inherited from the Montmorencys, I suppose,” suggested Lady Sophia, ironically.
 
“I have no doubt. You will remember in our father the firmness and decision of which I speak.”
 
“I remember that he was as as a pig.”
 
“My dear, I do not want to you, but I really must ask you not to make these unseemly remarks. If you are of recognizing the respect due to your father, I would have you that he was also Lord of England.”
 
“Do you ever give me the chance to forget it?” murmured Lady Sophia. “But what has that to do with Winnie?”
 
“I was about to observe that whatever my faults, when I make up my mind that a thing is right, no power on earth can prevent me from doing it. Now, I do not wish to be offensive, but I cannot help perceiving that the firmness, which, if I may say it without vanity, is so marked a characteristic in me, is apt in other members of our family to into something which the uncharitable may well call obstinacy.”
 
“Upon my word, Theodore, it’s fortunate you told me you had no wish to be offensive.”
 
“Please don’t interrupt,” pursued the Canon, with a wave of the hand. “Now, I am with Winnie as the Irishman deals with the pig he is taking to market. He pulls the way he doesn’t want to go, and the pig quite happily goes the other.”
 
“I wish you’d say plainly what you’re driving at.”
 
“My dear, when Winnie said she would marry Mr. Railing, she didn’t reckon on Mr. Railing’s mamma and she didn’t reckon on Mr. Railing’s sister who teaches in the Board School. In such cases the man has often educated himself into something that passes , and your sex has no great skill in discerning a gentleman from the spurious article. But the women! My dear Sophia, I tell you Winnie won’t like them at all.”
 
“The more his relations are, the more her pride will force Winnie to keep her promise.”
 
“We shall see.”
 
Lady Sophia, pursing her lips, thought over the wily device which the Canon had unfolded, then she glanced at him sharply.
 
“Are you quite sure it’s honest, Theodore?”
 
“My dear Sophia, what do you mean?” cried he, much astonished.
 
“Isn’t it a little underhand?”
 
Canon Spratte drew himself up and looked at his sister with some sternness.
 
“My dear, I do not wish to remind you that I am a clergyman, though occasionally you seem strangely of the fact. But I should like to point out to you that it’s unlikely, to say the least of it, that a man of my position in the Church should do anything dishonest or underhand.”
 
Lady Sophia, raising her , smiled thinly.
 
“My dear brother, if as Vicar of St. Gregory’s and Canon of Tercanbury, and Bishop of Barchester, you assure me that you are like a and a gentleman—of course I haven’t the to say anything further.”
 
“You may set your mind at rest,” he answered, with a little laugh of scorn, “you can be quite sure that whatever I do is right.”