“Denounced?” gasped Mrs. Fetherel.  “On what ground?”

“On the ground of immorality.”  The Bishop evaded her startled gaze.  “Such a thing is inconceivable to you, of course; but I am only repeating what my publisher tells me.  If, for instance, a critic could be induced—­I mean, if a critic were to be found, who called in question the morality of my heroine in sacrificing her own health and that of her idiot sisters in order to put up a memorial window to her grandfather, it would probably raise a general controversy in the newspapers, and I might count on a sale of ten or fifteen thousand within the next year.  If he described her as morbid or decadent, it might even run to twenty thousand; but that is more than I permit myself to hope.  In fact, I should be satisfied with any general charge of immorality.”  The Bishop sighed again.  “I need hardly tell you that I am actuated by no mere literary ambition.  Those whose opinion I most value have assured me that the book is not without merit; but, though it does not become me to dispute their verdict, I can truly say that my vanity as an author is not at stake.  I have, however, a special reason for wishing to increase the circulation of ‘Through a Glass Brightly’; it was written for a purpose—­a purpose I have greatly at heart—­”

“I know,” cried his niece sympathetically.  “The chantry window—?”

“Is still empty, alas! and I had great hopes that, under Providence, my little book might be the means of filling it.  All our wealthy parishioners have given lavishly to the cathedral, and it was for this reason that, in writing ‘Through a Glass,’ I addressed my appeal more especially to the less well-endowed, hoping by the example of my heroine to stimulate the collection of small sums throughout the entire diocese, and perhaps beyond it.  I am sure,” the Bishop feelingly concluded, “the book would have a wide-spread influence if people could only be induced to read it!”

His conclusion touched a fresh thread of association in Mrs. Fetherel’s vibrating nerve-centers.  “I never thought of that!” she cried.

The Bishop looked at her inquiringly.

“That one’s books may not be read at all!  How dreadful!” she exclaimed.

He smiled faintly.  “I had not forgotten that I was addressing an authoress,” he said.  “Indeed, I should not have dared to inflict my troubles on any one not of the craft.”

Mrs. Fetherel was quivering with the consciousness of her involuntary self-betrayal.  “Oh, uncle!” she murmured.

“In fact,” the Bishop continued, with a gesture which seemed to brush away her scruples, “I came here partly to speak to you about your novel.  ‘Fast and Loose,’ I think you call it?”

Mrs. Fetherel blushed assentingly.

“And is it out yet?” the Bishop continued.

“It came out about a week ago.  But you haven’t touched your tea, and it must be quite cold.  Let me give you another cup...”