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different. But to go from the church to nothingness isn't to go

from falsehood to truth. It's to go from truth, rather badly



expressed, rather conservatively hidden by its protections, truth

in an antiquated costume, to the blackest lie--in the world."



She took that point very brightly.

"One must hold fast to 'iligion," she said, and looked



earnestly at him and gripped fiercely, pink thumbs out, with her

beautiful hands held up.



That was it, exactly. He too was gripping. But while on the

outside the Midianites of denial were prowling for these clinging



souls, within the camp they were assailed by a meticulous

orthodoxy that was only too eager to cast them forth. The bishop



dwelt for a time upon the curious fiercenessorthodoxy would

sometimes display. Nowadays atheism can be civil, can be



generous; it is orthodoxy that trails a scurrilous fringe.

"Who was that young man with a strong Irish accent--who



contradicted me so suddenly?" he asked.

"The dark young man?"



"The noisy young man."

"That was Mist' Pat'ick O'Go'man. He is a Kelt and all that.



Spells Pat'ick with eva so many letters. You know. They say he

spends ouas and ouas lea'ning E'se. He wo'ies about it. They all



t'y to lea'n E'se, and it wo'ies them and makes them hate England

moa and moa."



"He is orthodox. He--is what I call orthodox to the

ridiculous extent."



"'idiculous."

A deep-toned gong proclaimed breakfast over a square mile or so



of territory, and Lady Sunderbund turned about mechanically

towards the house. But they continued their discussion.



She started indeed a new topic. "Shall we eva, do 'ou think,

have a new 'iligion--t'ua and betta?"



That was a revolutionary idea to him.

He was still fending it off from him when a gap in the shrubs



brought them within sight of the house and of Mrs. Garstein

Fellows on the portico waving a handkerchief and crying



"Break-fast."

"I wish we could talk for houas," said Lady Sunderbund.



"I've been glad of this talk," said the bishop. "Very glad."

She lifted her soft abundant skirts and trotted briskly across



the still dewy lawn towards the house door. The bishop followed

gravely and slowly with his hands behind his back and an



unusually peaceful expression upon his face. He was thinking how

rare and precious a thing it is to find intelligent friendship in



women. More particularly when they were dazzlingly charming and

pretty. It was strange, but this was really his first woman



friend. If, as he hoped, she became his friend.

Lady Sunderbund entered the breakfast room in a gusty abundance



like Botticelli's Primavera, and kissed Mrs. Garstein Fellows

good-morning. She exhaled a glowing happiness. "He is wondyful,"



she panted. "He is most wondyful."

"Mr. Hidgeway Kelso?"



"No, the dee' bishop! I love him. Are those the little sausages

I like? May I take th'ee? I've been up houas."



The dee' bishop appeared in the sunlit doorway.

(5)



The bishop felt more contentment in the London train than he

had felt for many weeks. He had taken two decisive and relieving



steps. One was that he had stated his case to another human

being, and that a very charming and sympathetic human being, he



was no longer a prey to a current of secret and concealed

thoughts runningcounter to all the appearances of his outward



life; and the other was that he was now within an hour or so of

Brighton-Pomfrey and a cigarette. He would lunch on the train,



get to London about two, take a taxi at once to the wise old

doctor, catch him over his coffee in a charitable and



understanding mood, and perhaps be smoking a cigarette publicly

and honourably and altogether satisfyingly before three.



So far as Brighton-Pomfrey's door this program was fulfilled

without a hitch. The day was fine and he had his taxi opened, and



noted with a patrioticsatisfaction as he rattled through the

streets, the glare of the recruiting posters on every vacant



piece of wall and the increasing number of men in khaki in the




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