“No, Bishop, I am afraid you cannot stay.  Monsignore Murray is quite beyond understanding.  He seems so good, and yet to have done a thing like this is awful.  Surely he realizes what a scandal he may stir up.”

“Could you possibly secure an automobile to take us to Father Darcy’s?” asked the Bishop anxiously.  “He lives in the next town, and we could catch the train at his station.”

“I will try.”

By this time Mark had decided that he could not very well go through the kitchen, and he had heard enough to make him feel that his duty toward Ruth was to wait.  It was something he would not have done under other circumstances; but Mark was in love, and he remembered the adage about love and war.

“At once, please,” he heard the young priest say over the telephone.  Then he hung up the receiver, just as Father Murray stepped into the dining room from the kitchen through which he had passed from the sacristy.

“Welcome, Mr. Griffin,” he said cordially.  “Come, you must meet His Lordship.  He’s in here,” and he threw open the folding-doors.  The Bishop was standing.  The secretary entered from the hall.  The Bishop’s face was grave; but Father Murray did not notice that.  He was like a youth, with the excitement of the occasion upon him.

“Let me present a traveler, Mr. Mark Griffin, of England, to Your Lordship—­or is it Ireland, Mr. Griffin?  Mr. Griffin is going to stay to break bread with us, Bishop, and I know you will like him.”

“I am pleased indeed to meet Mr. Griffin,” said the Bishop.  “I saw you in the church, sir.  But I am very sorry, Monsignore, that I am not to have the opportunity of knowing Mr. Griffin better.  I am not—­”

But the tactful secretary saved the Bishop an unpleasant explanation.

“His Lordship has to leave, Monsignore, and at once.  The automobile is even now, I think, coming around the corner.  It has become necessary for the Bishop to go to Father Darcy’s before taking the train back to the city.  He hopes to catch Father Darcy for a few minutes before taking the train at the next station.”

Father Murray almost gasped.

“But, My Lord,” he cried, “our meal is prepared.  We have been looking forward to your staying.  It is customary, is it not?  I shall never be able to—­” and then his voice broke, for he was pleading, “My dear Bishop, you will surely stay?”

Mark thought that all the misery of the world was in the priest’s tones.

“I am sorry, Monsignore,” and the Bishop looked it, though he spoke very quickly; “but circumstances compel me to leave at once.  No one regrets the necessity more than I do.  I should willingly stay if it were expedient, but unfortunately it is not.”

“The auto is waiting, Bishop,” said the secretary, who by this time had the prelate’s coat and hat in his hand.  The valises were lying packed in the hall, as they had come from the church.