“You became excited,” said Bliss, “and spoke very loudly and clearly.”

“What did I say?”

“I don’t know what you said; I have forgotten.  I never want to remember.  Things about the Second Advent.  Dreadful things.  You said God was close at hand.  Happily you spoke partly in Greek.  I doubt if any of those children understood.  And you had a kind of lapse—­an aphasia.  You mutilated the interrogation and you did not pronounce the benediction properly.  You changed words and you put in words.  One sat frozen—­waiting for what would happen next.”

“We must postpone the Pringle confirmation,” said Whippham.  “I wonder to whom I could telephone.”

Lady Ella appeared, and came and knelt down by the bishop’s chair.  “I never ought to have let this happen,” she said, taking his wrists in her hands.  “You are in a fever, dear.”

“It seemed entirely natural to say what I did,” the bishop declared.

Lady Ella looked up at Bliss.

“A doctor has been sent for,” said the canon to Lady Ella.

“I must speak to the doctor,” said Lady Ella as if her husband could not hear her.  “There is something that will make things clearer to the doctor.  I must speak to the doctor for a moment before he sees him.”

Came a gust of pretty sounds and a flash of bright colour that shamed the rich vestments at hand.  Over the shoulder of the rector and quite at the back, appeared Lady Sunderbund resolutely invading the vestry.  The rector intercepted her, stood broad with extended arms.

“I must come in and speak to him.  If it is only fo’ a moment.”

The bishop looked up and saw Lady Ella’s expression.  Lady Ella was sitting up very stiffly, listening but not looking round.

A vague horror and a passionate desire to prevent the entry of Lady Sunderbund at any cost, seized upon the bishop.  She would, he felt, be the last overwhelming complication.  He descended to a base subterfuge.  He lay back in his chair slowly as though he unfolded himself, he covered his eyes with his hand and then groaned aloud.

“Leave me alone!” he cried in a voice of agony.  “Leave me alone!  I can see no one....  I can—­no more.”

There was a momentous silence, and then the tumult of Lady Sunderbund receded.

CHAPTER THE EIGHTH — THE NEW WORLD

(1)

That night the bishop had a temperature of a hundred and a half.  The doctor pronounced him to be in a state of intense mental excitement, aggravated by some drug.  He was a doctor modern and clear-minded enough to admit that he could not identify the drug.  He overruled, every one overruled, the bishop’s declaration that he had done with the church, that he could never mock God with his episcopal ministrations again, that he must proceed at once with his resignation.  “Don’t think of these things,” said the doctor.  “Banish them from your mind until your temperature is down to ninety-eight.  Then after a rest you may go into them.”