“I’ve been glad of this talk,” said the bishop.  “Very glad.”

She lifted her soft abundant skirts and trotted briskly across the still dewy lawn towards the house door.  The bishop followed gravely and slowly with his hands behind his back and an unusually peaceful expression upon his face.  He was thinking how rare and precious a thing it is to find intelligent friendship in women.  More particularly when they were dazzlingly charming and pretty.  It was strange, but this was really his first woman friend.  If, as he hoped, she became his friend.

Lady Sunderbund entered the breakfast room in a gusty abundance like Botticelli’s Primavera, and kissed Mrs. Garstein Fellows good-morning.  She exhaled a glowing happiness.  “He is wondyful,” she panted.  “He is most wondyful.”

“Mr. Hidgeway Kelso?”

“No, the dee’ bishop!  I love him.  Are those the little sausages I like?  May I take th’ee?  I’ve been up houas.”

The dee’ bishop appeared in the sunlit doorway.

(5)

The bishop felt more contentment in the London train than he had felt for many weeks.  He had taken two decisive and relieving steps.  One was that he had stated his case to another human being, and that a very charming and sympathetic human being, he was no longer a prey to a current of secret and concealed thoughts running counter to all the appearances of his outward life; and the other was that he was now within an hour or so of Brighton-Pomfrey and a cigarette.  He would lunch on the train, get to London about two, take a taxi at once to the wise old doctor, catch him over his coffee in a charitable and understanding mood, and perhaps be smoking a cigarette publicly and honourably and altogether satisfyingly before three.

So far as Brighton-Pomfrey’s door this program was fulfilled without a hitch.  The day was fine and he had his taxi opened, and noted with a patriotic satisfaction as he rattled through the streets, the glare of the recruiting posters on every vacant piece of wall and the increasing number of men in khaki in the streets.  But at the door he had a disappointment.  Dr. Brighton-Pomfrey was away at the front—­of all places; he had gone for some weeks; would the bishop like to see Dr. Dale?

The bishop hesitated.  He had never set eyes on this Dr. Dale.

Indeed, he had never heard of Dr. Dale.

Seeing his old friend Brighton-Pomfrey and being gently and tactfully told to do exactly what he was longing to do was one thing; facing some strange doctor and going slowly and elaborately through the whole story of his illness, his vow and his breakdown, and perhaps having his reaction time tested and all sorts of stripping and soundings done, was quite another.  He was within an ace of turning away.

If he had turned away his whole subsequent life would have been different.  It was the very slightest thing in the world tipped the beam.  It was the thought that, after all, whatever inconvenience and unpleasantness there might be in this interview, there was at the end of it a very reasonable prospect of a restored and legitimate cigarette.