Mr.John Jasper.' 'Has he a calling, good gentleman ?' 'Calling?
Yes.

Sings in the choir.' 'In the spire ?' 'Choir.' 'What's that ?' Mr.Datchery rises from his papers, and comes to his doorstep.

'Do you know what a cathedral is ?' he asks, jocosely.
The woman nods.
'What is it ?' She looks puzzled, casting about in her mind to find a definition, when it occurs to her that it is easier to point out the substantial object itself, massive against the dark-blue sky and the early stars.
'That's the answer.

Go in there at seven to-morrow morning, and you may see Mr.John Jasper, and hear him too.' 'Thank ye! Thank ye!' The burst of triumph in which she thanks him does not escape the notice of the single buffer of an easy temper living idly on his means.

He glances at her; clasps his hands behind him, as the wont of such buffers is; and lounges along the echoing Precincts at her side.
'Or,' he suggests, with a backward hitch of his head, 'you can go up at once to Mr.Jasper's rooms there.' The woman eyes him with a cunning smile, and shakes her head.
'O! you don't want to speak to him ?' She repeats her dumb reply, and forms with her lips a soundless 'No.' 'You can admire him at a distance three times a day, whenever you like.
It's a long way to come for that, though.' The woman looks up quickly.