At this unexpected announcement, a ripple of excitement ran through the assemblage, and more than one head was abruptly turned in the direction of Mrs. Fetherel, who sat listening in an agony of wonder and confusion.  It did not escape the observant novelist at her side that she drew down her veil to conceal an uncontrollable blush, and this evidence of dismay caused him to fix an attentive gaze on her, while from her seat across the aisle, Mrs. Gollinger sent a smile of unctuous approval.

“A book—­a simple book—­” the Bishop’s voice went on above this flutter of mingled emotions.  “What is a book?  Only a few pages and a little ink—­and yet one of the mightiest instruments which Providence has devised for shaping the destinies of man . .. one of the most powerful influences for good or evil which the Creator has placed in the hands of his creatures...”

The air seemed intolerably close to Mrs. Fetherel, and she drew out her scent-bottle, and then thrust it hurriedly away, conscious that she was still the center of an unenviable attention.  And all the while the Bishop’s voice droned on...

“And of all forms of literature, fiction is doubtless that which has exercised the greatest sway, for good or ill, over the passions and imagination of the masses.  Yes, my friends, I am the first to acknowledge it—­no sermon, however eloquent, no theological treatise, however learned and convincing, has ever inflamed the heart and imagination like a novel—­a simple novel.  Incalculable is the power exercised over humanity by the great magicians of the pen—­a power ever enlarging its boundaries and increasing its responsibilities as popular education multiplies the number of readers....Yes, it is the novelist’s hand which can pour balm on countless human sufferings, or inoculate mankind with the festering poison of a corrupt imagination....”

Mrs. Fetherel had turned white, and her eyes were fixed with a blind stare of anger on the large-sleeved figure in the center of the chancel.

“And too often, alas, it is the poison and not the balm which the unscrupulous hand of genius proffers to its unsuspecting readers.  But, my friends, why should I continue?  None know better than an assemblage of Christian women, such as I am now addressing, the beneficent or baleful influences of modern fiction; and so, when I say that this beautiful chantry window of ours owes its existence in part to the romancer’s pen”—­the Bishop paused, and bending forward, seemed to seek a certain face among the countenances eagerly addressed to his—­“when I say that this pen, which for personal reasons it does not become me to celebrate unduly—­”

Mrs. Fetherel at this point half rose, pushing back her chair, which scraped loudly over the marble floor; but Hynes involuntarily laid a warning hand on her arm, and she sank down with a confused murmur about the heat.