of pictures
of great people of all kinds--dukes, marquises, lords, counts--as well
as photographs of fashionable ladies in low dress inscribed in several
languages to "My dear Father in God the Lord Bishop of Ellan."

The Bishop came to me after a few minutes, smiling and apparently at
peace with all the world. Except that he wore a biretta he was
dressed--as in Rome--in his long black soutane with its innumerable
buttons, his silver-buckled shoes, his heavy gold chain and jewelled
cross.

He welcomed me in his smooth and suave manner, asking if he could offer
me a little refreshment; but, too full of my mission to think of eating
and drinking, I plunged immediately into the object of my visit.

"Monsignor," I said, "I am in great trouble. It is about my marriage."

The smile was smitten away from the Bishop's face by this announcement.

"I am sorry," he said. "Nothing serious, I trust?"

I told him it was very serious, and straightway I began on the spiritual
part of my grievance--that my husband did not love me, that he loved
another woman, that the sacred sacrament of my marriage. . . .

"Wait," said the Bishop, and he rose to close the window, for the
clamour of the crows was deafening--a trial must have been going on in
the trees. Returning to his seat he said:

"Dear lady, you must understand that there is one offence, and only one,
which in all Christian countries and civilised communities is considered
sufficient to constitute a real and tangible grievance. Have you any
evidence of that?"

I knew what he meant and I felt myself colouring to the roots of my
hair. But gulping down my shame I recounted the story of the scene in
Paris and gave a report of my maid's charges and surmises.

"Humph!" said the Bishop, and I saw in a moment that he was going to
belittle my proofs.

"Little or no evidence of your own, apparently. Chiefly that of your
maid. And ladies' maids are notorious mischief-makers."

"But it's true," I said. "My husband will not deny it. He cannot."

"So far as I am able to observe what passes in the world," said the
Bishop, "men in such circumstances always can and do deny it."

I felt my hands growing moist under my gloves. I thought the Bishop was
trying to be blind to what he did not wish to see.

"But I'm right, I'm sure I'm right," I said.

"Well, assuming you _are_ right, what is it, dear lady, that you wish me
to do?"

For some minutes I felt like a fool, but I stammered