nestly at him
and gripped fiercely, pink thumbs out, with her beautiful hands held up.

That was it, exactly. He too was gripping. But while on the outside the
Midianites of denial were prowling for these clinging souls, within
the camp they were assailed by a meticulous orthodoxy that was only too
eager to cast them forth. The bishop dwelt for a time upon the curious
fierceness orthodoxy would sometimes display. Nowadays atheism can be
civil, can be generous; it is orthodoxy that trails a scurrilous fringe.

"Who was that young man with a strong Irish accent--who contradicted me
so suddenly?" he asked.

"The dark young man?"

"The noisy young man."

"That was Mist' Pat'ick O'Go'man. He is a Kelt and all that. Spells
Pat'ick with eva so many letters. You know. They say he spends ouas and
ouas lea'ning E'se. He wo'ies about it. They all t'y to lea'n E'se, and
it wo'ies them and makes them hate England moa and moa."

"He is orthodox. He--is what I call orthodox to the ridiculous extent."

"'idiculous."

A deep-toned gong proclaimed breakfast over a square mile or so of
territory, and Lady Sunderbund turned about mechanically towards the
house. But they continued their discussion.

She started indeed a new topic. "Shall we eva, do 'ou think, have a new
'iligion--t'ua and betta?"

That was a revolutionary idea to him.

He was still fending it off from him when a gap in the shrubs brought
them within sight of the house and of Mrs. Garstein Fellows on the
portico waving a handkerchief and crying "Break-fast."

"I wish we could talk for houas," said Lady Sunderbund.

"I've been glad of this talk," said the bishop. "Very glad."

She lifted her soft abundant skirts and trotted briskly across the still
dewy lawn towards the house door. The bishop followed gravely and slowly
with his hands behind his back and an unusually peaceful expression upon
his face. He was thinking how rare and precious a thing it is to find
intelligent friendship in women. More particularly when they were
dazzlingly charming and pretty. It was strange, but this was really his
first woman friend. If, as he hoped, she became his friend.

Lady Sunderbund entered the breakfast room in a gusty abundance like
Botticelli's Primavera, and kissed Mrs. Garstein Fellows good-morning.
She exhaled a glowing happiness. "He is wondyful," she panted. "He is
most wondyful."

"Mr. Hidgeway Kelso?"

"No, the dee' bishop! I love him. Are those the little