so long as Dr. Cheesman held the see of Silchester would be given over to the preliminary nervousness of the diocesan clergy, who would one after another look at that steel engraving of Jesus Christ preaching by the Sea of Galilee, and who when they had finished looking at that would look at those two oil paintings of still life, those rich and sombre accumulations of fish, fruit and game, that glowed upon the walls with a kind of sinister luxury.  Waiting rooms are all much alike, the doctor’s, the dentist’s, the bishop’s, the railway-station’s; they may differ slightly in externals, but they all possess the same atmosphere of transitory discomfort.  They have all occupied human beings with the perusal of books they would never otherwise have dreamed of opening, with the observation of pictures they would never otherwise have thought of regarding twice.

“Would you step this way,” the butler requested.  “His lordship is waiting for you in the library.”

The two culprits, for by this time Mark was oblivious of every other emotion except one of profound guilt, guilt of what he could not say, but most unmistakably guilt, walked along toward the Bishop’s library—­Father Rowley like a fat and naughty child who knows he is going to be reproved for eating too many tarts.

There was a studied poise in the attitude of the Bishop when they entered.  One shapely leg trailed negligently behind his chair ready at any moment to serve as the pivot upon which its owner could swing round again into the every-day world; the other leg firmly wedged against the desk supported the burden of his concentration.  The Bishop swung round on the shapely leg in attendance, and in a single sweeping gesture blotted the last page of the letter he had been writing and shook Father Rowley by the hand.

“I am delighted to have an opportunity of meeting you, Mr. Rowley,” he began, and then paused a moment with an inquiring look at Mark.

“I thought you wouldn’t mind, my lord, if I brought with me young Lidderdale, who is reading for Holy Orders and working with us at St. Agnes’.  I am apt to forget sometimes exactly to what I have and have not committed myself and I thought your lordship would not object. . . .”

“To a witness?” interposed the Bishop in a tone of courtly banter.  “Come, come, Mr. Rowley, had I known you were going to be so suspicious of me I should have asked my domestic chaplain to be present on my side.”

Mark, supposing that the Bishop was annoyed by his presence at the interview, made a movement to retire, whereupon the Bishop tapped him paternally upon the shoulder and said: 

“Nonsense, non-sense, I was merely indulging in a mild pleasantry.  Sit down, Mr. Rowley.  Mr. Lidderdale I think you will find that chair quite comfortable.  Well, Mr. Rowley,” he began, “I have heard much of you and your work.  Our friend Canon Whymper spoke of it with enthusiasm.  Yes, yes, with enthusiasm.  I often regret that in the course of my ministry I have never had the good fortune to be called to work among the poor, the real poor.  You have been privileged, Mr. Rowley, if I may be allowed to say so, greatly, immensely privileged.  You find a wilderness, and you make of it a garden.  Wonderful.  Wonderful.”