Mr. Heard could not help saying: 

“You express yourself very well in English.”

“Oh, passably!  I have preached to large congregations of Catholics in the United States.  In England, too.  My mother was English.  The Vatican has been pleased to reward the poor labours of my tongue by the title of Monsignor.”

“My congratulations.  You are rather young for a Monsignor, are you not?  We are apt to associate that distinction with snuff-boxes and gout and—­”

“Thirty-nine.  It is a good age.  One begins to appreciate things at their true value.  Your collar!  Might I enquire—­”

“Ah, my collar; the last vestige. . . .  Yes, I am a bishop.  Bishop of Bampopo in Central Africa.”

“You are rather young, surely, for a bishop?”

Mr. Heard smiled.

“The youngest on the list, I believe.  There were not many applicants for the place; the distance from England, the hard work, and the climate, you know—­”

“A bishop.  Indeed!”

He waxed thoughtful.  Probably he imagined that his companion was telling him some traveller’s tale.

“Yes,” continued Mr. Heard.  “I am what we call a ‘Returned Empty.’  It is a phrase we apply in England to Colonial bishops who come back from their dioceses.”

“Returned Empty!  That sounds like beer.”

The priest was looking perplexed, as though uncertain of the other’s state of mind.  Southern politeness, or curiosity, overcame his fears.  Perhaps this foreigner was fond of joking.  Well, he would humour him.

“You will see our bishop to-morrow,” he pursued blandly.  “He comes over for the feast of the patron saint; you are lucky in witnessing it.  The whole island is decorated.  There will be music and fireworks and a grand procession.  Our bishop is a dear old man, though not exactly what you would call a liberal,” he added, with a laugh.  “That is as it should be, is it not?  We like our elders to be conservative.  They counteract the often violent modernism of the youngsters.  Is this your first visit to Nepenthe?”

“It is.  I have heard much about the beauty of the place.”

“You will like it.  The people are intelligent.  There is good food and wine.  Our lobsters are celebrated.  You will find compatriots on the island, some ladies among them; the Duchess of San Martino, for instance, who happens to be an American; some delightful ladies!  And the country girls, too, are worthy of a benevolent glance—­”

“That procession is sure to interest me.  What is the name of your patron?”

“Saint Dodekanus.  He has a wonderful history.  There is an Englishman on Nepenthe, Mr. Earnest Eames, a student, who will tell you all about it.  He knows more about the saint than I do; one would think he dined with him every evening.  But he is a great hermit—­Mr. Eames, I mean.  And it is so good of our old bishop to come over,” he pursued with a shade of emphasis.  “His work keeps him mostly on the mainland.  He has a large see—­nearly thirty square miles.  How large, by the way, is your diocese?”