choice of these patriarchal frolics, disdained to controvert certain frivolous folk who resorted to the same beach to gratify a morbid curiosity, under the pretext that it was a delectable entertainment and one of the sights of Nepenthe.  She disdained, nowadays.  It had not ever been thus.  Things were different before Peter the Great came upon the scene.  In those unregenerate times her Lutheran upbringing condemned, in no measured terms, this frank exhibition of animal nature.  A warm friendship with the good-looking apostle had now opened her eyes to the mystic sense of what went on.  Earthly love had given an unearthly tinge to her mind.  The veil had fallen; she saw through external appearances into the Symbolic Beyond.  Deeply penetrated of its inner meaning, she would say that the spectacle called up visions of the Age of Innocence, when the world was young. . . .

An elegant rowing-boat suddenly swept into Mr. Heard’s field of vision.  It had approached from round the entrance of the small bay and was already within a few yards ere he caught sight of it.  He dived skilfully, and on returning to the surface beheld Mr. Keith smiling upon him, with owlish benevolence, through his spectacles.

“How pretty you look,” he said.  “Just like a mermaid that’s lost its tail.”

“You flatter me!”

“Not at all.  Climb in and I’ll take you for a row.”

“Hadn’t I better get some clothes on?”

“As you please.  We can take you off that boulder if you want to dress.”

“You’re very kind.”

Kind indeed.  To admit a friend into one of his yachts or rowing-boats was an act of rare self-sacrifice on the part of Mr. Keith, who maintained that no vessel, not even an Atlantic liner, was large enough for more than one passenger.

“You are comfortable in here,” the bishop remarked, as he presently stepped on board and looked around him.  “Cleopatra’s barge must have been something like this.”

“There will be no breeze worth talking about all day.  We must row.”

An awning of red silk screened off the rays of the sun; the appointments of the small boat—­the polished wood of rare texture, morocco leather cushions, and elaborate fittings—­bespoke the taste or at least the income of a Sybarite.  A grizzly brown sailor and his curly-pated son were the oarsmen; in the stern sat a couple of Keith’s attendants, whom Mr. Heard might have mistaken for two Green genii but for the fact that between them lay an enormous and hideously modern receptacle of wicker-work which impaired the illusion.  It troubled the bishop, both by reason of its incongruity and because he could not divine what its purpose might be, till Keith solved the mystery by saying: 

“I thought I would like to see for myself about this fountain of Saint Elias and, incidentally, enjoy a little al fresco luncheon by the shore.  Now I wonder whether there will be enough food for both of us in the basket?”