The dean seated himself in his comfortable arm-chair. "Try that chair,
Alfred, excellent for sleeping in at one's ease."

"To rest the cushion and soft dean invite."

"Ah!" said Alfred, "often have I sat in this room with my excellent friend,
Dr. Leicester!"

The new dean's countenance suddenly changed: but endeavouring to pass
it off with a jest, he said, "Ay, poor good old Leicester, he sleeps
for ever,--that's one comfort--to me--if not to you." But perceiving
that Alfred continued to look serious, the dean added some more proper
reflections in a tone of ecclesiastical sentiment, and with a sigh of
decorum--then rose, for he smelt that the _dilapidation suit_ was coming.

"Would not you like, Mr. Percy, to wash your hands before dinner?"

"I thank you, Mr. Dean, I must detain you a moment to speak to you on
business."

Black as Erebus grew the face of the dean--he had no resource but to
listen, for he knew it would come after dinner, if it did not come now; and
it was as well to have it alone in the study, where nobody might be a bit
the wiser.

When Alfred had stated the whole of what he had to say, which he did in as
few and strong words as possible, appealing to the justice and feelings
of Buckhurst--to the fears which the dean must have of being exposed, and
ultimately defeated, in a court of justice--"Mrs. Leicester," concluded he,