“If there was something else, an alternative, another religion, another Church, to which one could go, the whole case would be different. But to go from the church to nothingness isn't to go from falsehood to truth. It's to go from truth, rather badly expressed, rather conservatively hidden by its protections, truth in an antiquated costume, to the blackest lie--in the world.” She took that point very brightly. “One must hold fast to 'iligion,” she said, and looked earnestly at him and gripped fiercely, pink thumbs out, with her beautiful hands held up. That was it, exactly. He too was gripping. But while on the outside the Midianites of denial were prowling for these clinging souls, within the camp they were assailed by a meticulous orthodoxy that was only too eager to cast them forth. The bishop dwelt for a time upon the curious fierceness orthodoxy would sometimes display. Nowadays atheism can be civil, can be generous; it is orthodoxy that trails a scurrilous fringe. “Who was that young man with a strong Irish accent--who contradicted me so suddenly?” he asked. “The dark young man?” “The noisy young man.” “That was Mist' Pat'ick O'Go'man. He is a Kelt and all that. Spells Pat'ick with eva so many letters. You know. They say he spends ouas and ouas lea'ning E'se. He wo'ies about it. They all t'y to lea'n E'se, and it wo'ies them and makes them hate England moa and moa.” “He is orthodox. He--is what I call orthodox to the ridiculous extent.” “'idiculous.” A deep-toned gong proclaimed breakfast over a square mile or so of territory, and Lady Sunderbund turned about mechanically towards the house. But they continued their discussion. She started indeed a new topic. “Shall we eva, do 'ou think, have a new 'iligion--t'ua and betta?” That was a revolutionary idea to him. He was still fending it off from him when a gap in the shrubs brought them within sight of the house and of Mrs. Garstein Fellows on the portico waving a handkerchief and crying “Break-fast.” “I wish we could talk for houas,” said Lady Sunderbund. “I've been glad of this talk,” said the bishop. “Very glad.” She lifted her soft abundant skirts and trotted briskly across the still dewy lawn towards the house door. The bishop followed gravely and slowly with his hands behind his back and an unusually peaceful expression upon his face. He was thinking how rare and precious a thing it is to find intelligent friendship in women. More particularly when they were dazzlingly charming and pretty. It was strange, but this was really his first woman friend. If, as he hoped, she became his friend. Lady Sunderbund entered the breakfast room in a gusty abundance like Botticelli's Primavera, and kissed Mrs. Garstein Fellows good-morning. She exhaled a glowing happiness. “He is wondyful,” she panted. “He is most wondyful.” “Mr. Hidgeway Kelso?” “No, the dee' bishop! I love him. Are those the little sausages I like? May I take th'ee? I've been up houas.”