The American observed: 

“I should say that even our greatest bigots, nowadays, don’t take those old doctrines as seriously as you seem to think.”

“I daresay they don’t.  But they profess to reproach themselves for not doing so.  And this is more contemptible.  It adds insincerity to imbecility.”

A sunny smile played about his face as he spoke these words.  It was evident that his thoughts were already far away.  The bishop, following the direction of his glance, saw that it rested upon the statuette of the Faun whose head and shoulders were now enveloped in a warm beam of light.  Under that genial touch the old relic seemed to have woke up from its slumber.  Blood was throbbing in its veins.  It was inn movement; it dominated the scene in its emphatic affirmation of joy.

Mr. Heard, his eyes fixed upon the statuette, now realized the significance of what had been said.  He began to see more clearly.  Soon it dawned upon him that not joy alone was expressed by the figure.  Another quality, more evasive yet more compelling, resided in its subtle grace:  the element of mystery.  There, emprisoned in the bronze, dwelt some benignant oracle.

Puzzle as he would, that oracle refused to clothe itself in words.

What could it be?

A message of universal application, “loving and enigmatical,” as the old man had called it.  True!  It was a greeting from an unknown friend in an unknown land; something familiar from the dim past or distant future; something that spoke of well-being—­plain to behold, hard to expound, like the dawning smile of childhood.

CHAPTER XXXI

Towards evening, Mr. van Koppen drove the bishop down in the carriage which he usually hired for the whole of his stay on Nepenthe.  They said little, having talked themselves out with the Count.  The American seemed to be thinking about something.  Mr. Heard’s eye roamed over the landscape, rather anxiously.

“I don’t like that new cloud above the volcano,” he observed.

“Looks like ashes.  Looks as if it might drift in our direction, doesn’t it, if the wind were strong enough to move it?  Do you see much of the Count?” he enquired.

“Not as much as I should like.  What excellent veal cutlets those were!  So white and tender.  Quite different from the veal we get in England.  And that aromatic wine went uncommonly well with them.  It was his own growth, I suppose.”

“Very likely.  From that little vineyard which produces so many good things.”  He chuckled softly.  “As to English veal—­I never yet tasted any worth eating.  If you don’t slaughter a calf till it’s grown into a cow—­why, you’re not likely to get anything but beef.”

“They say the English cannot cook, in spite of the excellence of their prime materials.”

“I think the prime materials are at fault.  They sacrifice everything to size.  It’s barbaric.  Those greasy Southdown sheep!  It’s the same with their fowls; they’re large, but insipid—­very different from the little things you get down here.  Now a goose is capital fodder.  But if you grow him only for his weight, you destroy his quality and flavour; you get a lump of blubber instead of a bird.”