“Pray let me finish.  You are a married man, and if you should seek consolation, where several of your fellow priests have lately sought it, in the Church of Rome, you will have to seek it as a layman.  I do not pretend to know your private affairs, and I should consider it impertinent if I tried to pry into them at such a moment.  But I do know your worth as a priest, and I have no hesitation in begging you once more with a heart almost too full for words to pause, Mr. Lidderdale, to pause and reflect before you take the irreparable step that you are contemplating.  I have already talked too much, and I see that your good wife is looking anxiously at my plate.  No more cauliflower, thank you, Mrs. Lidderdale, no more of anything, thank you.  Ah, there is a pudding on the way?  Dear me, that sounds very tempting, I’m afraid.”

The Bishop now turned his attention entirely to Mrs. Lidderdale at the other end of the table; the Missioner sat biting his nails; and Mark wondered what all this conversation was about.

While the Bishop was waiting for his cab, which, he explained to his hosts, was not so much a luxury as a necessity owing to his having to address at three o’clock precisely a committee of ladies who were meeting in Portman Square to discuss the dreadful condition of the London streets, he laid a fatherly arm on the Missioner’s threadbare cassock.

“Take two or three days to decide, my dear Mr. Lidderdale.  The Bishop of London, who is always consideration personified, insisted that you were to take two or three days to decide.  Once more, for I hear my cab-wheels, once more let me beg you to yield on the following points.  Let me just refer to my notes to be sure that I have not omitted anything of importance.  Oh, yes, the following points:  no Asperges, no unusual Good Friday services, except of course the Three Hours. Is not that enough?”

“The Three Hours I would give up.  It’s a modern invention of the Jesuits.  The Adoration of the Cross goes back. . . .”

“Please, please, Mr. Lidderdale, my cab is at the door.  We must not embark on controversy.  No celebrations without communicants.  No direct invocation of the Blessed Virgin Mary or the Saints.  Oh, yes, and on this the Bishop is particularly firm:  no juggling with the Gloria in Excelsis.  Good-bye, Mr. Lidderdale, good-bye, Mrs. Lidderdale.  Many thanks for your delicious luncheon.  Good-bye, young man.  I had a little boy like you once, but he is grown up now, and I am glad to say a soldier.”

The Bishop waved his umbrella, which looked much like a pastoral staff, and lightly mounted the step of his cab.

“Was the Bishop cross with Father?” Mark inquired afterward; he could find no other theory that would explain so much talking to his father, so little talking by his father.