IN WHICH THE BISHOP EATS JAM TART, AND MISS MATILDA HUMBLE-PIE.
"Now," remarked the Bishop to Miss Arminster, as Marchmont quitted the cabin after this last astounding remark, "Now I'm certain he's mad."
"Oh, no," replied the lady, "it's merely journalistic enterprise. I don't blame him for being disappointed. It must be hard to find that we're not conspirators, after all."
"But why should he wish to make us so?"
"You dear stupid old Joe!" she exclaimed. "You haven't the remotest inkling of what American journalism means. It's sensation first, last, and altogether. Think of a bishop, and an English bishop at that, posing as an agent of the Spanish secret service, and eloping with an actress on somebody else's yacht. Why, I can shut my eyes and see the headlines. They're almost certain to print them in red ink. There's fame for you!"
"But why should he wish to print it if it's not the truth?"
"Truth! My dear Bishop, who said anything about truth? We were speaking of news, and—journalistic enterprise."
At this moment the door again burst open, and Marchmont flung into the cabin.
"There!" he said, with a tone of triumph, "we've sighted an American steamer down channel, and have hoisted the Spanish flag. We're pursuing her, and very presently we shall be captured, and you'll be surrendered."
"I suppose," began the Bishop, "that, to a man so devoid of moral consciousness as you appear to be, no arguments of mine—"