“No hour could suit me better to-day,” said George, accepting the seat--he perceived at once that it was a genuine Chippendale chair upholstered in old red morocco--to which his lordship made a motion with his hand. He did not, however, seat himself until the bishop had occupied, which he did very comfortably, the corresponding chair at the side of the study desk. “I was anxious to have a chat with you about that book, and that article of yours in the _Zeit Geist_, Holland,” said the bishop. “I wish you had written neither.” “_Litera scripta manet_,” said George, with a smile. One may quote Latin in conversation with a bishop without being thought a prig. In a letter to the _Times_ and in conversation with a bishop are the only two occasions in these unclassical days when one may safely quote Latin or Greek. “That’s the worst of it,” said the prelate, with a shake of his head that was Early Norman. “Yes, you see a book isn’t like a sermon. People don’t remember a man’s sermons against him nowadays; they do his books, however.” “I am quite ready to accept the conditions of modern life, my lord,” said George. “I was anxious to give you my opinion as early as possible,” resumed the bishop, “and that is, that what you have just published--the book and the _Zeit Geist_ article--reflect--yes, in no inconsiderable measure--what I have long thought.” “I am flattered, indeed, my lord.” “You need not be, Holland. I believe that there are a large number of thinking men in the Church who are trying to solve the problem with which you have so daringly grappled--the problem of how to induce intellectual men and women to attend the services of the church. I’m afraid that there is a great deal of truth in what you say about the Church herself bearing responsibility for the existence of this problem.” “There is no setting aside that fact, my lord.”