He had a kindly word for all, and all answered his salutations respectfully; the women bobbing curtseys, the old men offering to rise from their chairs.

But this he would by no means allow.

His presence seemed to carry with it a fragrance of his own, as real as that of the mignonette and roses and sweet-Williams amid which he left them embowered.
When he had passed out of earshot, Brother Clerihew turned to Brother Woolcombe and said-- "The silly old '-- ' is beginning to show his age, seemin' to me." "Oughtn't to," answered Brother Woolcombe.

"If ever a man had a soft job, it's him." "Well, I reckon we don't want to lose him yet, anyhow--'specially if Colt is to step into his old shoes." Brother Clerihew's reference was to the Reverend Rufus Colt, Chaplain of St.Hospital.
"They never would!" opined Brother Woolcombe, meaning by "they" the governing body of Trustees.
"Oh, you never know--with a man on the make, like Colt.

Push carries everything in these times." "Colt's a hustler," Brother Woolcombe conceded.