"But the Bishop didn't know the circumstances," said Christian. "It was the subtlest kind of deviltry, not humanity, that prompted the act. If I hadn't given her my coat, the old lady would have frozen to death and been soon out of her misery. As it was, my wet coat saved her from an immediate surcease of sorrow, and, as I had foreseen, gave her muscular rheumatism of the most painful sort, from which she has suffered ever since." "You should have explained to the Bishop." "I did." "And what did he say?" "He said my methods were too damned artistic." "What?" cried Mrs. Goodheart. "The Bishop?" "Oh, well," said Christian, "words to that effect. He doesn't appreciate the subtleties of gloom distinction. What he looks for is sheer brutality. Might as well employ an out-and-out desperado for the work. I like to infuse a little art into my work. I've tried to bring Gloomsterism up to the level of an art, a science. Slapping a man in the face doesn't make him gloomy; it makes him mad. But subtlely infusing woe into his daily life, so that he doesn't know whence all his trouble comes--ah! that is the perfect flower of the Gloomster's work!" "H'm!" said Mrs. Goodheart. "That's well enough, Christian. If you are rich enough to consume your own product with profit, it's all right to be artistic; but if you are dependent on a salary, don't forget your consumer. What else have they against you?" "Read on, woman," said the Gloomster. "'April 1, 1898,'" the lady read. "'Gave a half-crown to a starving beggar.'" "That was another highly artistic act," said Christian. "I told the Bishop that I had given the coin to the beggar knowing it to be counterfeit, and hoping that he would be arrested for trying to pass it. The Bishop cut me short by saying that my hope had not been fulfilled. It seems that that ass of a beggar bought some food with the half-crown, and the grocer who sold him the food put the counterfeit half-crown in the contribution-box the next Sunday, and the Church was stuck. That's what I call hard luck." "Oh, well," returned Mrs. Goodheart, putting the paper down in despair. "There's no need to read further. That alone is sufficient to cause your downfall. When do you resign?" "At once," sighed Christian. "In fact, the Bishop had already written my resignation--which I signed." "And the land is without a Gloomster for the first time in five hundred years?" demanded Mrs. Goodheart. "No," said Christian, the tears coursing down his nose. "The place is filled already, and by one who knows gloom only theoretically--a mere summer resident of the Isle of Man. In short, a famous London author has succeeded me." "His name!" cried Mrs. Goodheart. * * * * * "Just then," said Snobbe, "I awoke, and did not catch the author's name. It is a curious thing about dreams that just when you get to the crucial point you wake up."