situation.  Mr. Clinch’s misconduct was of the kind especially designed by Providence to test the fortitude of a Christian wife and mother, and the Bishop was absolutely distended with seasonable advice and edification; so that when Bella met his tentative exhortations with the curt remark that she preferred to do her own housecleaning unassisted, her uncle’s grief at her ingratitude was not untempered with sympathy for Mr. Clinch.

It is not surprising, therefore, that the Bishop’s warmest greetings were always reserved for Mrs. Fetherel; and on this occasion Mrs. Clinch thought she detected, in the salutation which fell to her share, a pronounced suggestion that her own presence was superfluous—­a hint which she took with her usual imperturbable good humor.

II

Left alone with the Bishop, Mrs. Fetherel sought the nearest refuge from conversation by offering him a cup of tea.  The Bishop accepted with the preoccupied air of a man to whom, for the moment, tea is but a subordinate incident.  Mrs. Fetherel’s nervousness increased; and knowing that the surest way of distracting attention from one’s own affairs is to affect an interest in those of one’s companion, she hastily asked if her uncle had come to town on business.

“On business—­yes—­” said the Bishop in an impressive tone.  “I had to see my publisher, who has been behaving rather unsatisfactorily in regard to my last book.”

“Ah—­your last book?” faltered Mrs. Fetherel, with a sickening sense of her inability to recall the name or nature of the work in question, and a mental vow never again to be caught in such ignorance of a colleague’s productions.

“‘Through a Glass Brightly,’” the Bishop explained, with an emphasis which revealed his detection of her predicament.  “You may remember that I sent you a copy last Christmas?”

“Of course I do!” Mrs. Fetherel brightened.  “It was that delightful story of the poor consumptive girl who had no money, and two little brothers to support—­”

“Sisters—­idiot sisters—­” the Bishop gloomily corrected.

“I mean sisters; and who managed to collect money enough to put up a beautiful memorial window to her—­her grandfather, whom she had never seen—­”

“But whose sermons had been her chief consolation and support during her long struggle with poverty and disease.”  The Bishop gave the satisfied sigh of the workman who reviews his completed task.  “A touching subject, surely; and I believe I did it justice; at least, so my friends assured me.”

“Why, yes—­I remember there was a splendid review of it in the ’Reredos’!” cried Mrs. Fetherel, moved by the incipient instinct of reciprocity.

“Yes—­by my dear friend Mrs. Gollinger, whose husband, the late Dean Gollinger, was under very particular obligations to me.  Mrs. Gollinger is a woman of rare literary acumen, and her praise of my book was unqualified; but the public wants more highly seasoned fare, and the approval of a thoughtful churchwoman carries less weight than the sensational comments of an illiterate journalist.”  The Bishop lent a meditative eye on his spotless gaiters.  “At the risk of horrifying you, my dear,” he added, with a slight laugh, “I will confide to you that my best chance of a popular success would be to have my book denounced by the press.”