I failed. He merely growled again. I went on reading the letter: “You will observe at once that the Archdeacon, whom we should all like to have as our new bishop, possesses every requirement for the office except one, number fifteen on the enclosed list, marked for convenience of reference, with a violet asterisk.” “What is the missing _sine qua?_” I asked. “Don’t tell me if it’s private.” “It’s--it’s--damn it all, look for yourself.” He flung a typewritten sheet of foolscap at me. I picked my way carefully among the red and black crosses until I came to the violet asterisk. “No. 15. ‘A bishop must be the husband of one wife’--I Tim: III.” “That’s rather a poser,” I said, “if true. It seems to me to put the Archdeacon out of the running straight off.” “No. It doesn’t,” said Thormanby. “That’s where the girl’s infernal insolence comes in.” I read: “This obstacle, though under the present circumstances an absolute bar, is fortunately remedial.” “I wish Lalage would be more careful,” I said, “she ought to have written ‘remediable.’ However her meaning is quite plain.” “It gets plainer further on,” said Thormanby grinning. This was the first time I had seen him grin since I came into the room. I took it for an encouraging sign. Lalage’s letter went on: “The suggestion of the obvious remedy, must be made by some one, for the Archdeacon has evidently not thought of it himself. It would come particularly well from you, occupying as you do a leading position in the diocese. Unfortunately the time at our disposal is very short, and it will hardly do to leave the Archdeacon without some practical suggestion for the immediate remedying of the sad defect. What you will have to offer him is a scheme thoroughly worked out and perfect in every detail. The name of Miss Battersby will probably occur to you at once. I need not remind you of her sweet and lovable disposition. You have been long acquainted with her, and will recognize in her a lady peculiarly well suited to share an episcopal throne.” Thormanby became almost purple in the face as I read out the final sentences of the letter. I saw that he was struggling with some strong emotion and suspected that he wanted very much to laugh. If he did he suppressed the desire manfully. His forehead was actually furrowed with a frown when I had finished. I laid the letter down on the table and tapped it impressively with my forefinger. “That,” I said, “strikes me as a remarkably good suggestion.” Thormanby exploded. “Of all the damned idiots I’ve ever met,” he said, “you’re the worst. Do you mean to say that you expect me to drag Miss Battersby over to the Archdeacon’s house and dump her down there in a white satin dress with a wedding ring tied round her neck by a ribbon and a stodgy cake tucked under her arm?”