Mr. Ponting settled the situation.
"His lordship," he said, "hopes that you will let Bassett drive you into
Polchester. There is the little wagonette; Bassett must go, in any case,
to get some things. It is no trouble, no trouble at all."
They, of course, agreed, although for Brandon at any rate there would be
many things in the world pleasanter than sitting with Ronder in a small
wagonette for more than an hour. He also had no liking for Bassett, the
Bishop's coachman for the last twenty years, a native of South Glebeshire,
with all the obstinacy, pride and independence that that definition
includes.
There was, however, no other course, and, a quarter of an hour later, the
two clergymen found themselves opposite one another in a wagonette that
was indeed so small that it seemed inevitable that Ronder's knees must
meet Brandon's and Brandon's ankles glide against Ronder's.
The Archdeacon's temper was, by this time, at its worst. Everything had
been ruined by Ronder's presence. The original grievances were bad enough
--the way in which his letter had been flouted, the fashion in which his
conversation had been disregarded at luncheon, the sanctified pleasure
that Ponting's angular countenance had expressed at every check that he
had received; but all these things mattered nothing compared with the fact
that Ronder was present at the news of Morrison's death.
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