pectancy.[1] Angel, always so fluent when we were by ourselves, balked at explaining things to grown-ups, and, though the Bishop usually saw things from our point of view, one could never be absolutely certain that even he would not prove obtuse on such a delicate issue as this.
So I rose, and met his enquiring look with such explanation as suited his adult understanding.
"Please, sir," I said, politely, "this nice old man has been turned out by his grandsons, and he's on his way to town, where he's got some kind grandsons—"
—"Fwee of 'em," put in The Seraph.
—"And we were wondering," I hurried on, "if you'd give him a lift that far."
"I expect you're tired out," said the Bishop, kindly, turning to Granfa.
"I be none too peart, but terrible wishful to get under the roof o' my grandsons, thank 'ee."
"You shall have a seat beside Harry; I see you've had some lunch; and now, boys, I think we have time for an hour's fishing before we go, but first we must dispose of Charles Augustus. I don't like the way he looks. I don't know whether he's just foxy and pretending he's dead so we shan't use him for bait, or whether the ale was too much for him. At any rate, he's looking far from well." And the Bishop peered anxiously into the treacle tin.
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