AUNTIE.  Why not?  He’s rich!  He can do it!

VICAR.  So, he can recognise me at last!

AUNTIE.  It was as much your fault as his, that you have never met! 
He naturally resented our marriage.

VICAR [ironically].  But, of course, now that I’m related to the great and wealthy Bishop of Benares ...

AUNTIE [warmly].  He’s as much a bishop as your brother is!

VICAR.  He!  That gaitered snob!

AUNTIE.  William, how dare you!

VICAR.  Yes, he’s a bishop!  A bishop of stocks and shares!  A bishop of the counting-house!  A bishop of Mammon!

AUNTIE.  William!

VICAR.  The devil’s own bishop!

AUNTIE. At least, he isn’t a WORKING-MAN!

VICAR [as though stung].  Ah! . . .

[They stand below the table, one on either side, tense with passion.  They remain so.]

[MANSON and ROGERS come in with the breakfast.  ROGERS goes out immediately.]

MANSON.  Sorry to have delayed, sir; but you said a quarter to nine, didn’t you, sir?

VICAR.  Yes.

MANSON.  Breakfasts served, ma’am.  It’s served, sir.

[They move to the table, absently, first one, then the other, as he goes to each separately.]

[MANSON serves them in silence for a few moments.]

Beg pardon, sir:  what time did you expect the Bishop of Benares?

VICAR.  Oh!—­During the morning, he said.  That will mean the twelve-thirty, I suppose.  It’s the only convenient service.

MANSON.  And the Bishop of Lancashire, ma’am?

AUNTIE.  He didn’t say; but I think we may expect him by the same train.  He would scarcely think of catching the . . .

[There is heard a loud Ringing of the Bell—­a bishop at the very least.  All three heads turn automatically.]

Good gracious!  Already!

MANSON.  It doesn’t sound like the Bishop of Benares, ma’am.  He generally comes very quietly.

AUNTIE.  Quick!

MANSON.  Yes, ma’am.

[He goes out by the main door.]

AUNTIE [rapidly], William, I’m sorry!  Really, I didn’t mean you:  I never thought of you; I was only thinking of Robert.  I only think of you as a great scholar and a saint—­yes, you are one!—­and as the man I love!  I would sacrifice everything to your happiness.  Robert’s nothing to me; that’s why I . . .  Think of what it might mean to Mary—­we must think of others, William!—­our own little child, as we try to imagine . . .

[The VICAR makes a gesture of anguish.]

As for James, God knows I did it for the best.  I love you, my dear, I love you:  I wouldn’t have vexed you for the world!  After all, he is my brother, William! . . . .  I thought of patching up the enmity between you:  I thought of all your hopes of rebuilding the church, and James was the only rich man I thought might be induced—­under the circumstances . . .