“It is rather too strident, isn’t it?” No sugar-coating the truth! If he had said anything else he would have been compromising with veracity; he would not have spoken the thought born in his brain at the question. Of course, some one repeated what he said to Miss Schermerhorn, who came from one of the oldest families, was tall and angular, and cherished fond illusions, or delusions, that she was an amateur nightingale. The some one who repeated, had to repeat, because Miss Schermerhorn was her dearest friend and confidante. Then Miss Schermerhorn came right up to Bob and asked him if he had said it and he was obliged to answer that he had. What she said, or thought, need not be repeated. She left poor Bob feeling about as big as a caterpillar. “How very tactful of Mr. Bennett!” was all Miss Gerald said, when Miss Dolly related to her the little incident. “That’s just what I adore in him!” gushed the temperamental little thing. “He doesn’t seem to be afraid of saying anything to anybody. He’s so delightfully frank!” “Frank, certainly!” answered Miss Gerald icily. “Anyhow, he’s a regular tango-king!” murmured Miss Dolly dreamily. “I’m so glad _you_ approve of him, dear!” said Miss Gerald with an enigmatic smile. Perhaps she implied the temperamental little thing found herself in a class, all by herself, in this regard. The latter flew over to Bob. If he was so “frank” and ingenuous about Miss Schermerhorn, perhaps he would be equally so with other persons. Miss Dolly asked him if he didn’t think the bishop’s sermons “just too dear?” Bob did not. “Why not?” she persisted. Bob had just been reading _The Outside of the Pot_. “Why not?” repeated Miss Dolly. “Antediluvian!” groaned Bob, then turned a fiery red. The bishop, standing on the other side of the doorway, had overheard. Maybe Miss Dolly had known he stood there for she now giggled and fled. Bob wanted to sink through the floor, but he couldn’t. “So, sir, you think my sermons antediluvian?” said the bishop, with a twinkle of the eye. _He_ never got mad, he was the best old man that way that ever happened. “Yes, sir,” replied Bob, by rote. “Thank you,” said the bishop, and rubbed his nose. Then he eyed Bob curiously. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. That made Bob feel awful, but he couldn’t retract. The truth as he saw it!—He felt as if he were chained to the wheel of fate—the truth as he saw it, though the heavens fell! “Of course, that’s only my poor insignificant opinion,” he murmured miserably. “Every man’s opinion is entitled to respect,” said the bishop. “Yes, sir,” replied Bob, more miserably still. The bishop continued to study him. “You interest me, Mr. Bennett.” “Do I?” said Bob. “I’m rather interesting to myself just now.” “You evidently agree with the author of _The Outside of the Pot_?” “That’s it.” Weakly. “Well, cheer up,” said the bishop, and walked away.