[He is; and goes out.]

ROBERT. 'Ere! Did 'e say _bishop_?

MANSON. Yes.

ROBERT. Comin' 'ere? Now?

[MANSON nods his head to each inquiry.]

Well, I ain't agoin' ter leave my sossingers, not if 'e was a
bloomin' archangel, see!

[ROGERS, still jiggered, ushers in JAMES PONSONBY MAKESHYFTE, D.D.,
the Most Reverend the Lord Bishop of Lancashire. He looks his
name, his goggles and ear-trumpet lending a beautiful perfection to
the resemblance.]

[MANSON has risen: ROBERT, imperturbable, discusses sossingers:
ROGERS, with a last excruciation of his ailment, vanishes.]

[The Most Reverend Father in God stands blinking for recognition.
Pained at the non-fulfilment of this worthy expectation, he
moves--a little blindly--towards the table. Here he encounters the
oppugnant back of the voracious ROBERT, who grows quite annoyed.
Indeed, be as good as says so.]

'Ere, where ye comin' to?

BISHOP [peering closely into his face, the other edging away]. Ah!