The Bishop raised his eyes.  They were full of a deep melancholy.

“We are not trees—­we are men!” he said—­“And as men, God has made us all aware of the love of woman,—­the irresistible passion that at one time or another makes havoc or glory of our lives!  It is the direst temptation on earth.  Worst of all and bitterest it is when love comes too late,—­too late, John!—­I say in your case, it comes too late!”

John sighed and smiled.

“Love—­if it has come to me at all—­is never too late,”—­he said with quiet patience,—­“My dear Brent, don’t you understand?  This little girl—­this child—­for she is nothing more than that to a man of my years—­has slipped into my life by chance, as it were, like a stray sunbeam—­no more!  I feel her brightness—­her warmth—­her vitality—­and my soul is conscious of an animation and gladness whenever she is near, of which she is the sole cause.  But that is all.  Her pretty ways—­her utter loneliness,—­are the facts of her existence which touch me to pity, and I would see her cared for and protected,—­but I know myself to be too old and too unworthy to so care for and protect her.  I want her to be happy, but I am fully conscious that I can never make her so.  Would you call this kind of chill sentiment ’love’?”

Brent regarded him steadfastly.

“Yes, John!  I think I should!—­yes, I certainly should call ’this chill sentiment’ love!  And tell me—­have you never got out of your depth in the water of this ‘chill sentiment,’ or found yourself battling for dear life against an outbreak of volcanic fire?”

Walden was silent.

“I never thought,”—­continued the Bishop, rather sorrowfully,—­“when I wrote to you about the return of Robert Vancourt’s daughter to her childhood’s home, that she would in any serious way interfere with the peace of your life, John!  I told you just what I had heard—­no more.  I have never seen the girl.  I only know what people say of her.  And that is not altogether pleasing.”

“Do you believe what people say?” interrupted Walden, suddenly,—­“Is it not true that when a woman is pretty, intelligent, clean-souled and pure-minded, and as unlike the rest of ‘society’ women as she can well be, she is slandered for having the very virtues her rivals do not possess?”

“Quite true!”—­said Brent—­“and quite common.  It is always the old story—­’Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.’  Do not imagine for a moment, John, that I am going to run the risk of losing your friendship by repeating anything that may have been said against the reputation or the character of Miss Vancourt.  I have always prayed that no woman might ever come between us,”—­and here a faint tinge of colour warmed the pallor of his face—­“And, so far, I fancy the prayer has been granted.  And I do not think that this—­this—­shall we call it glamour, John?—­this glamour, of the imagination and the senses, will overcome you in any detrimental way.  I cannot picture you as the victim of a ‘society’ siren!”