“My dear Mrs. Breckenridge, that Clarence is now passing through a most unfortunate, most lamentable, period in his life is, alas, perfectly true.  His mother—­a lovely woman—­was one of my wife’s dearest friends, one of my own.  His first marriage was much against her wishes, poor dear lady, and—­as my wife was saying the other day—­had she lived to see him happily married again, and her grandchild in such good hands, it could not but have been a great joy to her.  Yes. ...  Now, you and I know Clarence—­know his good points, and know his faults.  That’s one of the sad things about us poor human beings, we get to know each other so well!  And isn’t it equally true that we’re not patient enough with each other?—­oh, yes, I know we try.  But do we try hard enough?  Isn’t there generally some fault on both sides, quick words, angry, hasty actions, argument and blame, when we say things we don’t mean and that we are sure to regret, eh?  We all get tired of the stupid round of daily duty, and of the people we are nearest to—­that’s a sad thing, too.  We’d all like a change, like to see if we couldn’t do something else better!  And so comes the break, and the cloud on a fine old name, and all because we aren’t better soldiers—­we don’t want to march in line!  Bless me, don’t I know the feeling myself?  Why, that good little wife of mine could tell you some tales of discouragement and disenchantment that would make you open your eyes!  But she braces me up, she puts heart into me—­and the first thing I know I’m marching again!”

And having comfortably shifted the entire trend of the conversation from his parishioner to himself and found nothing insurmountable in his own problem, the good bishop would chuckle mischievously at finding his eminent self quite human after all, and would suggest their going in to find Mrs. Bishop, and having a cup of tea.  These women, always restless and dissatisfied, were a part of his work; he prided himself upon the swiftness and tact with which he disposed of them.

Rachael’s mouth twisted wryly at the thought of him.  No, she could not bare her soul to the bishop.

Nor could she approach Father Graves with any real hope of a helping word.  To seek him out in his study—­that esthetically bare and yet beautiful room, with its tobacco-brown hangings and monastic furnishing in black oak—­would be to invite mischief.  To sit there, with her eloquent eyes fixed upon his, her haunting voice wrapping itself about his senses, would be a genuine cruelty toward a harmless, well-intentioned youth whose heroism in abjuring the world, the flesh, and the devil had not yet been great enough to combat his superb and dignified egotism.  At best, he would be won by Rachael’s revelation of her soul to a long and frankly indiscreet talk of his own; at worst, he would construe her confidences in an entirely personal sense, and feel that she came not at all to the priest and all to the man.