“Well, I believe I am.”

“You’ll find her ladyship there before you.  She lunched with her aunt at the deanery as she went through, yesterday; finding it too much trouble to go out to her father’s, at Plumstead.  Her father is the archdeacon, you know.  They do say—­but her ladyship is your friend!”

“No friend at all; only a very slight acquaintance.  She’s quite as much above my line as she is above her father’s.”

“Well, she is above them all.  They say she would hardly as much as speak to the old gentleman.”

“What, her father?”

“No, Mr Harding; he that chanted the Litany just now.  There he is, sir, coming out of the deanery.”

They were now standing at the door leading out from one of the transepts, and Mr Harding passed them as they were speaking together.  He was a little, withered, shambling old man, with bent shoulders, dressed in knee-breeches and long black gaiters, which hung rather loosely about his poor old legs,—­rubbing his hands one over the other as he went.  And yet he walked quickly; not tottering as he walked, but with an uncertain, doubtful step.  The verger, as Mr Harding passed, put his hand to his head, and Crosbie also raised his hat.  Whereupon Mr Harding raised his, and bowed, and turned round as though he were about to speak.  Crosbie felt that he had never seen a face on which traits of human kindness were more plainly written.  But the old man did not speak.  He turned his body half round, and then shambled back, as though ashamed of his intention, and passed on.

“He is of that sort that they make the angels of,” said the verger.  “But they can’t make many if they want them all as good as he is.  I’m much obliged to you, sir.”  And he pocketed the half-crown which Crosbie gave him.

“So that’s Lady Dumbello’s grandfather,” said Crosbie, to himself, as he walked slowly round the close towards the hospital, by the path which the verger had shown him.  He had no great love for Lady Dumbello, who had dared to snub him—­even him.  “They may make an angel of the old gentleman,” he continued to say; “but they’ll never succeed in that way with the granddaughter.”

He sauntered slowly on over a little bridge; and at the gate of the hospital he again came upon Mr Harding.  “I was going to venture in,” said he, “to look at the place.  But perhaps I shall be intruding?”

“No, no; by no means,” said Mr Harding.  “Pray come in.  I cannot say that I am just at home here.  I do not live here,—­not now.  But I know the ways of the place well, and can make you welcome.  That’s the warden’s house.  Perhaps we won’t go in so early in the day, as the lady has a very large family.  An excellent lady, and a dear friend of mine,—­as is her husband.”

“And he is warden, you say?”

“Yes, warden of the hospital.  You see the house, sir.  Very pretty, isn’t it?  Very pretty.  To my idea it’s the prettiest built house I ever saw.”