There were not many people for whom Mr. Heard would have put himself out just then in that particular way; and Denis, up to a few days ago, was certainly not one of them.  The bishop had never been drawn towards this rather precious youth.  He was not Mr. Heard’s type of boy.  There was a lack of grit and stamina about him—­something soft, both in manner and appearance; something dreamy, ambiguous, almost epicene.  Mr. Heard had not quite lost his old British instinct as to the fundamental uselessness of all art.  A young fellow who, instead of taking up some rational profession, talked about Cimabue and Jacopo Bellini . . . there was something not quite right with him.  Jacopo Bellini!  But even while thinking what to reply, he was conscious of having undergone a slight change of feeling lately.  He was growing more tolerant and benign, even in trifles like this.  Jacopo Bellini:  why not?  Meanwhile, he bethought himself of a way of escape.

“Suppose you go alone?  Or why not try the midnight expedition first?  I might manage midnight.”

“I’ve tried it.”

“Alone?” he laughed.  “No success?”

“None whatever,” said Denis.  And it seemed as if a shadow flitted across his face at these words.

That cloud, that change of tone—­what did they portend?  Something might be wrong, then, after all.  Perhaps Keith had been correct in his diagnosis when he observed that a susceptible mind like this could be shaken out of its equilibrium by the influence of Nepenthe—­“capable of anything in this clear pagan light.”  It was not Mr. Heard’s habit to probe into the feelings of others—­as to those of a person like Denis he did not pretend to understand them.  Artistic people!  Incalculable!  Inconsequential!  Irresponsible!  Quite another point of view!  Yet he could not help thinking of that doleful black rock, with the turquoise-tinted water at its foot.  Remembering these things he felt a sudden access of sympathy towards this lonesome fellow-creature.  Instead of pursuing the subject of the expedition he asked, quite abruptly: 

“Tell me, Denis, are you happy here?”

“How odd that you should come with that question!  I had a letter from my mother this morning.  She wants to know the same thing.  And hanged if I know what to say.”

Mr. Heard made up his mind.

“Hanged if you know?  Then I’ll tell you.  Write to say that you have met the Bishop of Bampopo, who seems a perfectly respectable old fellow.  Uncommonly respectable!  Tell her you rather like him.  Tell her she can find out all about him in Crockford or the Red Book.  Tell her that he will be happy to correspond with her, if she will allow it.  Tell her you feel sure he will look after you these last few days, before we all go away.  Tell her—­oh, everything nice you can think of.  You’ll do that, won’t you?  And now I will climb any mountain you like.  Where are we going?”

“I have thought of a good place.  Rather high up, but well worth it.  I feel sure something funny is going to happen to-day.  Don’t you notice a kind of demonic influence in the air?”