Beside the bed was a convenient little table bearing the light, a water-bottle and glass, a bunch of keys, a congested pocket-book, a gold-banded fountain pen, and a gold watch that indicated a quarter past three.  On the lower edge of the picture in the mirror appeared the back of a gilt chair, over which a garment of peculiar construction had been carelessly thrown.  It was in the form of that sleeveless cassock of purple, opening at the side, whose lower flap is called a bishop’s apron; the corner of the frogged coat showed behind the chair-back, and the sash lay crumpled on the floor.  Black doeskin breeches, still warmly lined with their pants, lay where they had been thrust off at the corner of the bed, partly covering black hose and silver-buckled shoes.

For a moment the tired gaze of the man in the bed rested upon these evidences of his episcopal dignity.  Then he turned from them to the watch at the bedside.

He groaned helplessly.

(4)

These country doctors were no good.  There wasn’t a physician in the diocese.  He must go to London.

He looked into the weary eyes of his reflection and said, as one makes a reassuring promise, “London.”

He was being worried.  He was being intolerably worried, and he was ill and unable to sustain his positions.  This doubt, this sudden discovery of controversial unsoundness, was only one aspect of his general neurasthenia.  It had been creeping into his mind since the “Light Unden the Altar” controversy.  Now suddenly it had leapt upon him from his own unwary lips.

The immediate trouble arose from his loyalty.  He had followed the King’s example; he had become a total abstainer and, in addition, on his own account he had ceased to smoke.  And his digestion, which Princhester had first made sensitive, was deranged.  He was suffering chemically, suffering one of those nameless sequences of maladjustments that still defy our ordinary medical science.  It was afflicting him with a general malaise, it was affecting his energy, his temper, all the balance and comfort of his nerves.  All day he was weary; all night he was wakeful.  He was estranged from his body.  He was distressed by a sense of detachment from the things about him, by a curious intimation of unreality in everything he experienced.  And with that went this levity of conscience, a heaviness of soul and a levity of conscience, that could make him talk as though the Creeds did not matter—­as though nothing mattered....

If only he could smoke!

He was persuaded that a couple of Egyptian cigarettes, or three at the outside, a day, would do wonders in restoring his nervous calm.  That, and just a weak whisky and soda at lunch and dinner.  Suppose now—!

His conscience, his sense of honour, deserted him.  Latterly he had had several of these conscience-blanks; it was only when they were over that he realized that they had occurred.