“The pulpit—?” Mrs. Fetherel mused.

“Why, yes—­look at those two novels in England last year—­”

Mrs. Fetherel shook her head hopelessly.  “There is so much more interest in literature in England than here.”

“Well, we’ve got to make the supply create the demand.  The Bishop could run your novel up into the hundred thousands in no time.”

“But if he can’t make his own sell—?”

“My dear, a man can’t very well preach against his own writings!”

Mrs. Clinch rose and picked up her proofs.

“I’m awfully sorry for you, Paula dear,” she concluded, “but I can’t help being thankful that there’s no demand for pessimism in the field of natural history.  Fancy having to write ’The Fall of a Sparrow,’ or ‘How the Plants Misbehave!’”

IV

Mrs. Fetherel, driving up to the Grand Central Station one morning about five months later, caught sight of the distinguished novelist, Archer Hynes, hurrying into the waiting-room ahead of her.  Hynes, on his side, recognizing her brougham, turned back to greet her as the footman opened the carriage-door.

“My dear colleague!  Is it possible that we are traveling together?”

Mrs. Fetherel blushed with pleasure.  Hynes had given her two columns of praise in the Sunday “Meteor,” and she had not yet learned to disguise her gratitude.

“I am going to Ossining,” she said, smilingly.

“So am I. Why, this is almost as good as an elopement.”

“And it will end where elopements ought to—­in church.”

“In church?  You’re not going to Ossining to go to church?”

“Why not?  There’s a special ceremony in the cathedral—­the chantry window is to be unveiled.”

“The chantry window?  How picturesque!  What is a chantry?  And why do you want to see it unveiled?  Are you after copy—­doing something in the Huysmans manner?  ‘La Cathedrale,’ eh?”

“Oh, no.”  Mrs. Fetherel hesitated.  “I’m going simply to please my uncle,” she said, at last.

“Your uncle?”

“The Bishop, you know.”  She smiled.

“The Bishop—­the Bishop of Ossining?  Why, wasn’t he the chap who made that ridiculous attack on your book?  Is that prehistoric ass your uncle?  Upon my soul, I think you’re mighty forgiving to travel all the way to Ossining for one of his stained-glass sociables!”

Mrs. Fetherel’s smile flowed into a gentle laugh.  “Oh, I’ve never allowed that to interfere with our friendship.  My uncle felt dreadfully about having to speak publicly against my book—­it was a great deal harder for him than for me—­but he thought it his duty to do so.  He has the very highest sense of duty.”

“Well,” said Hynes, with a shrug, “I don’t know that he didn’t do you a good turn.  Look at that!”

They were standing near the book-stall, and he pointed to a placard surmounting the counter and emblazoned with the conspicuous announcement:  “Fast and Loose.  New Edition with Author’s Portrait.  Hundred and Fiftieth Thousand.”