"With the Bishop? How nice! I wish I were. He's an old dear."
"He wants to consult me about some of the Jubilee services," Brandon said
in his public voice.
"Won't Canon Ryle mind that?"
"I don't care if he does. It's his own fault, for not managing things
better."
"I think the Bishop must be very lonely out there. He hardly ever comes
into Polchester now. It's because of his rheumatism, I suppose. Why
doesn't he resign, daddy?"
"He's wanted to, a number of times. But he's very popular. People don't
want him to go."
"I don't wonder." Joan's eyes sparkled. "Even if one never saw him at all
it would be better than somebody else. He's _such_ an old darling."
"Well, I don't believe myself in men going on when they're past their
work. However, I hear he's going to insist on resigning at the end of this
year."
"How old is he, daddy?"
"Eighty-seven."
There was always a tinge of patronage in the Archdeacon's voice when he
spoke of his Bishop. He knew that he was a saint, a man whose life had
been of so absolute a purity, a simplicity, an unfaltering faith and
courage, that there were no flaws to be found in him anywhere.
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