gloss over its chronic redness. Her
teeth were genuine and she cultivated what society novelists term
silvery peals of laughter. In every way she accentuated or obliterated
nature in her efforts to render herself attractive.

Ichabod was writ large on her powdered brow, and it needed no great
foresight to foresee the speedy approach of acidulated spinsterhood.
But, to do her justice, this regrettable state of single blessedness was
far from being her own fault. If her good fortune had but equalled her
courage and energy she should have relinquished celibacy years ago.

'Oh, dear--dear Mrs Pansey,' said the younger lady, strong in adjectives
and interjections and reduplication of both, 'is the bishop very, very
sweet?'

'He's sweet enough as bishops go,' growled Mrs Pansey, in her deep-toned
voice. 'He might be better, and he might be worse. There is too much
Popish superstition and worship of idols about him for my taste. If the
departed can smell,' added the lady, with an illustrative sniff, 'the
late archdeacon must turn in his grave when those priests of Baal and
Dagon burn incense at the morning service. Still, Bishop Pendle has his
good points, although he _is_ a time-server and a sycophant.'

'Is he one of the Lancashire Pendles, dear Mrs Pansey?'

'A twenty-fifth cousin or thereabouts. He says he is a nearer relation,
but I know much more about it than he does. If you want an ornamental
bishop with good legs for gaiters, and a portly figure for an apron, Dr
Pendle's the man. But as a God-fearing priest' (with a groan), 'a
simple worshipper' (groan) 'and a lowly, repentant sinner' (groan), 'he
leaves much--much to be desired.'

'Oh, Mrs Pansey, the dear bishop a sinner?'

'Why not?' cried Mrs Pansey, ferociously; 'aren't we all miserable
sinners? Dr Pendle's a human worm, just as you are--as I am. You may
dress him in lawn sleeves and a mitre, and make pagan genuflections
before his throne, but he is only a worm for all that.'

'What about his wife?' asked Daisy, to avert further expansion of this
text.

'A poor thing, my dear, with a dilated heart and not as much blood in
her body as would fill a thimble. She ought to be in a hospital, and
would be, too, if I had my way. Lolling all day long on a sofa, and
taking glasses of champagne between doses of iron and extract of beef;
then giving receptions and wearing herself out. How he ever came to
marry the white-faced doll I can't imagine. She was a Mrs Cre