The Bishop was then at his luncheon, and after luncheon (so his liveried servant told me) he usually took a siesta.  I have always thought it was unfortunate for my interview that it came between his food and his sleep.

The little reception-room into which I was shown was luxuriously, not to say gorgeously, appointed, with easy chairs and sofas, a large portrait of the Pope, signed by the Holy Father himself, and a number 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?”