“Ah! those must be the Romanists, my lord. Their attitude is humble though firm; they stand aloof in mute reverence, but will nevertheless be able to hear what the Bishop says, from the place they have chosen. No one knows, not even Jack Roller, what the Church has to say in this matter, and the prelate will have to solve his own problem by himself.” A sonorous “Hush” stopped all conversations, but at first it was impossible to hear one word, the prelate’s voice being too feeble for the open air. “Louder, my lord,” spoke the guide in a stage whisper; and the Bishop, coughing several times, began the Lord’s Prayer, which was repeated, sentence after sentence, by all those present. Never had the prayer been more reverently recited than on this day, when thousands of voices rose in a great wave of sound, and thousands of heads bowed humbly to the simplest of divine messages. When the Bishop spoke the last words, the crowd broke into a loud Amen, which was followed by a long silence broken only by the sound of horses’ hoofs pawing the ground. On a sign from his guide the Bishop, after more preliminary coughing, commenced his address. He displayed a slight nervousness of manner and a decided inarticulateness in delivery; but his audience, bent on hearing what he had to say, soon accustomed themselves to his wearisome intonation. The first part of his speech dealt with the duty of the British nation of setting an example of modesty and purity to all other nations. So far, so good, he did not depart from the customary dictates of British pride. He next proceeded to state facts known to everyone; he pointed out, for instance, that public baths were organised in all the parks of London; that the streets’ safety had been assured by what he called “altruistic discipline”; that the people’s food was now as delectable as that partaken of by the higher classes; that the vanishing of newspapers had been the means of raising the public level of morality; in fact, the prelate confessed that true Christianity ruled more forcibly in London, at present, than it had ever done at the epoch in which flourished the _Times_, and the _Church Times_. “Although the old Bishop does not put it in any original way; still, I am glad he recognises the good points of our new Society,” said Lady Carey, turning to Mrs Archibald, who looked listless and disdainful. “My dear Alicia, you must own that since our general denudation we have all been spared the squalid sights of misery?” “But misery must exist all the same, whether we see it or not,” remarked Vane, who could not lose a prejudice nor learn a lesson. “Ah! but we do not see it, my dear Montagu, and that is a blessing,” retorted Mowbray. “Misery unseen is half forgotten. Is not that the adage of true selfishness?” This was Nettie, Gwen’s guide, who had brought a cup of tea to Mrs Archibald. “Listen,” said Lady Carey, at this moment laying her hand on Mrs Archibald’s shoulder.