“Listen,” he said. “Let us come to some understanding. I am a member of the criminal classes, and you are a bishop of the English church. Perhaps the God you believe in may condescend to judge between us. The woman who was once your wife appealed to you when she was sick and penniless, and you disregarded her appeal. I, a poverty-stricken outcast supported her, gave her a home, and reverenced her as a sacred trust. ‘Whether of them twain did the will of his father?’” Everard stared at him in wide-eyed agitation. A customer entered with a book he had selected from the stall outside. Joyce went forward, received the money and returned to his former position by the Bishop. “I received no appeal from her,” said the latter. “You did, through me. She was too ill to write.” “When was this?” “Last November, a year ago.” Everard reflected for a moment and then a sudden memory flashed upon him, and an expression of deep pain came over his face. “God forgive me! I threw your letter into the fire unopened.” “Might I ask your reason?” asked Joyce, feeling a grim joy in his cousin’s humiliation. “I had been warned that you had gone to Fulminster on a begging errand--” “Did the Rector have the iniquity to write you that?” burst in Joyce fiercely. “It was not the Rector.” “Who, then? I saw no one but him. I was simply seeking Madame Latour.” “I name no names,” replied the Bishop, stiffly. “I am merely explaining. The letter, in fact, came by the same mail as yours. Little suspecting that you could address me on any subject unconnected with yourself, and keeping to my resolution to hold no further communication with you, I destroyed, as I say, your letter unopened. Believe me, the apology I tender to you--” “Is neither here nor there,” said Joyce, coldly. “I am past feeling such slights. I suppose your correspondent was that she-devil Emmeline Winstanley. I congratulate you.” The Bishop made no reply, but paced backwards and forwards two or three times with bent head, along the book-lined shelves. Then he stopped and said abruptly:-- “Tell me the facts about Yvonne.” The conciliatory mention of her by her Christian name thawed Joyce for the moment. He rapidly sketched events, while Everard listened, looking at him rigidly from under bent brows. “I would have given the last drop of my blood rather than she should have suffered so.” “So would I,” replied Joyce. “Would to God I had known of it!” “It was your own doing.” “You are right. My uncharitableness towards you has brought its punishment.” “I cannot say I am sorry,” said Joyce, grimly. There was a short silence, compelled by the struggling emotions in each man’s heart. In Joyce’s there was war, a sense of victory, of the sweetness of revenge. He felt, too, that now Yvonne would indubitatively reject the Bishop’s offer of help. He had won the right to support her. Suddenly her voice was heard from the back-parlour door. “Do come. The tea is getting quite cold.”