MARY.  Do you believe in liking people simply because they’re uncles?

MANSON.  Perhaps I’m a prejudiced person.

MARY.  I know exactly what he’ll be—­goody-goody, isn’t he?  You know—­religious, and all that!

MANSON.  God forbid!

MARY [fearfully].  Oh, perhaps he’s the other sort—­like auntie’s brother!  He’s a bishop—­the Bishop of Lancashire.  You see, I’ve heard a lot about bishops in my time, and they’re not always quite nice men.

MANSON.  And what sort is the Bishop of Lancashire?

MARY.  Well, I don’t think I ought to tell you; but I once heard Uncle William call him a devil!—­And he’s a clergyman!

MANSON.  Your Uncle Joshua’s reputation is exactly opposite.

MARY.  There is that; everybody speaks awfully well of him.

MANSON.  I don’t think I would go so far as that:  some people blackguard him abominably.

MARY.  No!—­Who?

MANSON.  His clergy, chiefly.

MARY.  His clergy!  They must be dreadfully wicked men!

MANSON.  No—­only blind:  perhaps, also, a little deaf.  But between the two they manage to make his work very difficult.

MARY.  Why?  What do they do?

MANSON.  It’s partly what they do not do.

MARY.  Oh, I see—­lazy.

MANSON.  Not precisely—­they work:  they are not idle; but they serve other masters.

MARY.  Such as whom?

MANSON.  The Bishop of Lancashire.

MARY [after a pause], I always thought he was such a great success out there.  The papers have been full of it—­of the millions of people who follow him about:  they say they almost worship him in some places.  What kind of people are they?

MANSON.  Just common people.

MARY.  And then, all that talk of die great churches he built out there! . . .

MANSON.  Churches?

MARY.  Yes; didn’t he?

MANSON.  He built one.

MARY.  What’s it like?

MANSON.  Those who have seen it say there is nothing like it on earth.

MARY [eagerly].  Have you seen it?

MANSON.  I was there when he built it.

MARY.  From the very beginning?

MANSON [solemnly].  From the beginning.

[MARY pauses before speaking:  then she says, slowly.]

MARY.  I hope I shall like him.  Is he—­is he anything like you?

[MANSON regards her silently for a moment.]

MANSON.  How is it that you know so little about him?

MARY.  Well, you see, I only heard yesterday.

MANSON.  I thought you said his name was on everybody’s lips.

MARY.  You don’t understand.  I mean, I never knew that he had anything to do with me—­that he was my father’s brother.

MANSON.  Didn’t he know?

MARY.   Who—­father?   Oh, you see, I. . .  I don’t know my father
. . . . . .   Uncle William didn’t know anything about it until
yesterday.

MANSON.  Hm!  That is strange, too!