gardens, and terminates on the London road, half a mile from the
cathedral.

Till they had both passed this small gate and entered the close,
neither of them spoke a word, but the precentor clearly saw from
his companion's face that a tornado was to be expected, nor was he
himself inclined to stop it. Though by nature far less irritable
than the archdeacon, even he was angry: he even--that mild and
courteous man--was inclined to express himself in anything but
courteous terms.




CHAPTER VI

War


"Good heavens!" exclaimed the archdeacon, as he placed his foot on the
gravel walk of the close, and raising his hat with one hand, passed
the other somewhat violently over his now grizzled locks; smoke
issued forth from the uplifted beaver as it were a cloud of wrath,
and the safety valve of his anger opened, and emitted a visible
steam, preventing positive explosion and probable apoplexy. "Good
heavens!"--and the archdeacon looked up to the gray pinnacles of the
cathedral tower, making a mute appeal to that still living witness
which had looked down on the doings of so many bishops of Barchester.

"I don't think I shall ever like that Mr. Slope," said Mr. Harding.