e Bishops never go on understanding anything," said Mr. Amarinth.
"They conceal their intelligence, if they have any, up their lawn
sleeves. I once met a Bishop. It was at a garden party at Lambeth
Palace. He took me aside into a small shrubbery, and informed me that
he was really a Buddhist. He added that nearly all the Bishops were."

"Is it true that Mr. Haweis introduced his congregation to a Mahatma in
the vestry after service last Sunday?" said Madame Valtesi. "I heard so,
and that he has persuaded Little Tich to read the lessons for the rest
of the season. I think it is rather hard upon the music halls. There is
really so much competition nowadays!"

"I know nothing about Mr. Haweis," said Mr. Smith, drinking some water
from a wineglass. "I understood he was a conjurer, or an entertainer, or
something of that kind."

"Oh no, he is quite a clergyman," exclaimed Mrs. Windsor. "Quite; except
when he is in the pulpit, of course. And then I suppose he thinks it
more religious to drop it."

"Since I have been away there has been a great change in services," said
Lady Locke. "They are so much brighter and more cheerful."

"Yes, Christians are getting very lively," said Madame Valtesi, helping
herself to a cutlet in aspic. "They demand plenty of variety in their
devotional exercises, and what Arthur Roberts, or somebody, calls 'short
turns.' The most popular of all the London clergymen invariably has an
anthem that lasts half-an-hour, and preaches for five minutes by a stop
watch."

"I scarcely think that music should entirely oust doctrine," began Mr.
Smith, refusing an entree with a gentle wave of his hand.

"The clergyman I sit under," said Mrs. Windsor, "always stops for
several minutes before his sermon, so that the people can go out if they
want to."

"How inconsiderate," said Mr. Amarinth; "of course no one dares to move.
English people never dare to move, except at the wrong time. They think
it is less noticeable to go out at a concert during a song than during
an interval. The English labour under so many curious delusions. They
think they are respectable, for instance, if they are not noticed, and
that to be talked about is to be fast. Of course the really fast people
are never talked about at all. Half the young men in London, whose names
are by-words, are intensely and hopelessly virtuous. They know it, and
that is why they look so pale. The consciousness of virtue is a terrible
thing, is it not, Mr.