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.

Dismissing him from her councils, Rachael thought of Florence

Haviland, the good and kind-hearted and capable matron who was

Clarence's sister and only near relative. She and Florence had

always been good friends, had often discussed Clarence of late.

What sort of advice would Florence's forty-five years be apt to

give to Rachael's twenty-eight? "Don't be so absurd, Rachael, half

the men in our set drink as much as Clarence does. Don't jump from

the frying-pan into the fire. Remember Elsie Rowland and Marian

Cowles when you talk so lightly of divorce!"

That would be Florence's probable attitude. Still, it was a

bracing attitude, heartily positive, like everything Florence did

and said. And Florence was above everything else a church member,

a prominent Christian in her self-sacrificing wifehood and

motherhood, her social and charitable and civic work. She might be

unflattering, but she would be right. Rachael's last conscious

thought, as she went off to sleep, was that she would take the

earliest possible moment to extract a verdict from Florence, She went into her husband's room at ten o'clock the next morning

to find Billy radiantly presiding over a loaded breakfast tray,

and the invalid, pale and pasty, and with no particular interest

in food evinced by the twitching muscles of his face, nevertheless

neatly brushed and shaved, propped up in pillows, and making a

visible effort to appear convalescent.




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