“Call it Neroism, or Commonsensism, or Modernism, or anything you like,” Rachael said with sudden fire, “but while you go on calling what you profess Christianity, Bishop, you simply subscribe to an untruth.  You know what our lives are, myself and Florence and Gardner and Clarence; is there a Commandment we don’t break all day long and every day?  Do we give our coats away, do we possess neither silver nor gold in our purses, do we love our neighbors?  Why don’t you denounce us?  Why don’t you shun the women in your parish who won’t have children as murderers?  Why don’t you brand some of the men who come to your church—­men whose business methods you know, and I know, and all the world knows—­as thieves!”

“And what would my branding them as murderers and thieves avail?” asked the bishop, actually a little pale now, and rising to face her as she rose.  “Are we to judge our fellowmen?”

“I’m not,” Rachael said, suddenly weary, “but I should think you might.  It would be at least refreshing to have you, or someone, demonstrate what Christianity is.  It would be good for our souls.  Instead,” she added bitterly, “instead, you select one little thing here, and one little thing there, and putter, and tinker, and temporize, and gloss over, and build big churches, with mortgages and taxes and insurance to pay, in the name of Christianity!  If I were little Annie Smith, down in the village here, I could get a divorce for twenty-five dollars, and you would never hear of it.  But Clarence Breckenridge is a millionaire, and the Breckenridges have gone to your church for a hundred years, and so it’s a scandal that must be averted if possible!”

“The church frowns on divorce,” said the bishop sternly.  “At the very present moment the House of Bishops, to which I have the distinguished honor to belong, is considering taking a decided stand in the matter.  Divorce is a sin—­a sin against one of God’s institutions.  But when I find a lady in this mood,” he continued, with a sort of magnificent forbearance, “I never attempt to combat her views, no matter how extraordinarily jumbled and—­and childish they are.  As a clergyman, and as an old friend, I am grieved when I see a hasty and an undisciplined nature about to do that which will wreck its own happiness, but I can only give a friendly warning, and pass on.  I do not propose to defend the institution to which I have dedicated my life before you or before anyone.  Shall we go back to the house?”

“Perhaps we had better,” Rachael agreed.  And as they went slowly along the wide brick walk she added in a softened tone:  “I do appreciate your affectionate interest in—­in us, Bishop.  But—­but it does exasperate me, when so many strange things are done in the name of Christianity, to have—­well, Florence for instance—­calmly decreeing that just these other certain things shall not be done!”

“Then, because we can’t all be perfect, it would be better not to try to be good at all?” the bishop asked, restored to equanimity by what he chose to consider an unqualified apology, and resuming his favorite attitude of benignant adviser.