She sat there, thoughtful, looking around the room, from the tumbled bed to the little table, upon which were placed a bottle of sherry and some biscuits; from the chair on which she had thrown some of her garments to the untidy dressing-table, her beautiful, unintelligent eyes wandered, seeing nothing but lace rochets, crosiers, crosses, and amethyst rings. Feeling absolutely at a loss, she inquired: “Do you think bishops are made like that?” “Of course,” he replied with assurance. “And so you think, _mon petit_, that if I were to ask Loyer to make Abbé Guitrel a bishop----” He assured her that Loyer, who was an old gallant, would not refuse that to a pretty woman. She fixed her pink silk knickers to a hook on her silk stays. Then, as he pressed for a reply, and insisted upon her going immediately to see the minister, she grew exceedingly curious, and not a little suspicious. “But, _mon petit_, why do you want Abbé Guitrel to be made a bishop? Why?” “To please Mother. And because I like the fellow; he is intelligent and up to date--there aren’t so many like him. Yes, he really is advanced and in the Pope’s good books besides. And Mother would be so delighted.” “Then why doesn’t she go herself and settle the business with Loyer?” “In the first place, darling, it wouldn’t be at all the same. Besides, my parents are not in very great favour with this Cabinet. My father, as President of the Chambre Syndicale des Métaux, has been protesting against the new tariffs. You cannot imagine how irritating these economic questions can be.” But she knew quite well that he was deceiving her, and that it was not filial love that made him dabble in ecclesiastical affairs. She went round the room in her pink knickers of flowered silk, lithe, agile, and pliable, stooping here and there over the scattered garments, searching for her petticoat. “_Mon petit_, I want your advice----” “What about?”