Mrs. Plush, checked in her forward plunge, stood an instant rigid, almost tilted backward; her right hand sketched the gesture of two barely extended fingers; then her just resentment of Mrs. Minity’s strictures was swept away in the triumph of having her there at last, and Mrs. Plush swept on full sail, welcoming her unexpected guest as obsequiously as if Mrs. Minity had been the Bishop. Kate Clephane looked on with lazy amusement. She could enjoy the humours of her little world now that her mind was more at leisure. She hoped the scene between Mrs. Plush and Mrs. Minity would prolong itself, and was getting up to move within ear-shot when the Bishop, supported by Mr. and Mrs. Merriman, at length appeared. Mrs. Clephane stopped short half-way across the terrace. She had never dreamed of this--never once thought it possible. Yet now she remembered that Dr. Arklow had been spoken of at the Drovers’ as one of the candidates for this new diocese; and there he stood, on the steps just above her, benignant and impressive as when she had last seen him, at St. Stephen’s, placing Anne’s hand in Chris Fenno’s.... Mrs. Clephane’s first impulse was to turn and lose herself in the crowd. The sight of that figure brought with it too many banished scenes and obliterated memories. Back they all rushed on her, fiercely importunate; she felt their cruel fingers at her throat. For a moment she stood irresolute, detached in the middle of the terrace; then, just as she was turning, she heard Mrs. Plush’s trumpet-call: “Mrs. Clephane? Yes, of course; there she is! Dear Mrs. Clephane, the Bishop has spied you out already!” He seemed to reach her in a stride, so completely did his approach span distances and wipe out time. She saw herself sitting again in a deep leather armchair, under the photogravure of Salisbury Cathedral, while he paced the worn rug before the hearth, and his preacher’s voice broke on the words: “Sterile pain....” “Shall we walk a little way? The garden seems very beautiful,” the Bishop suggested. They stood by a white balustrade under mimosa boughs, and exchanged futilities about the blueness of the sea and the heat of the sun. “A New York February ... brr....” “Yes, don’t you envy us? Day after day of this.... Oh, of course a puff of _mistral_ now and then ... but then that’s healthy ... and the flowers!” He laid his large hand deliberately on hers. “My dear--when are you coming home to New York?” She felt her face just brushed by the understanding look she had caught twice before in his eyes. “To New York? Never.” He waited as if to weigh the answer, and then turned his eyes on the Mediterranean. “Never is a long word. There is some one there who would be very happy if you did.” She answered precipitately: “It would never have been what he imagines....” “Isn’t he the best judge of that? He thinks you ought to have given him the chance.”