“So you don’t know the difference between augite and hornblende?” he once enquired.  “Really?  Dash my eyes!  How old did you say you were?”

“Nineteen.”

“And what have you been doing, Phipps, these last nineteen years?”

“One can’t know everything at my age.”

“Granted.  But I think you might have learnt that much.  Come to me on Thursday morning.  I’ll see what I can do for you.”

Mr. Heard rather admired this youthful scientist.  The fellow knew what he was after; he was after stones.  Perfect of his kind—­a condition which always appealed to the bishop.  Pleasant youngsters, both of them.  And so different from each other!

As to Denis—­he could not make up his mind about Denis.  To begin with, he exhaled that peculiar College aroma which the most heroic efforts of a lifetime often fail to dissipate.  Then, he had said something about Florence, and Cinque-Cento, and Jacopo Bellini.  The bishop, a practical man, had not much use for Jacopo Bellini or for people who talked about him.  None the less, while making himself useful with unpacking and arranging things, Denis dropped a remark which struck Mr. Heard.

“The canvas of Nepenthe,” he observed, “is rather overcharged.”

Rather overcharged. . . .

It was true, thought the bishop, as he glanced out of his window that evening, all alone, over the sea into which a young moon was just sinking to rest.  Overcharged!  A ceaseless ebb and flow of humanity surged before his weary eyes.  That sense of irreality which had struck him on his first view of the island was still persisting; the south wind, no doubt, helped this illusion.  He remembered the general affluence and kindliness of the people; that, at least, had made a definite mark upon his mind.  He liked the place.  Already he felt at home here, and in better health.  But when he tried to conjure up some definite impression of town and people, the images became blurred; the smiling priest, the Duchess, Mr. Keith—­they were like figures in a dream; they merged into memories of Africa, of his fellow-passengers from Zanzibar; they mingled with projects relating to his own future in England—­projects relating to his cousin on Nepenthe.  Mr. Heard felt exhausted.

He was too tired to be greatly affected by that cannonade, which was enough to rouse the dead.  Something must be happening, he mused; then, his meditations concluded, turned on his other side.  He slept well into the morning, and found his breakfast appetisingly laid out in the adjoining room.

And now, he thought, for that procession.