The Bishop straightened in his chair and looked at H. R. with a new and more personal interest.
"Indeed!" he said, so humanly that it sounded like "Do tell!" Grace was one of his flock. He remembered now that his friends the Goodchilds had been in print lately and that editorials had been written about the young man who proposed to marry the only daughter.
"I promised Grace that I would help our Church—"
To the Bishop these words, which the young man had used before, now had a different meaning. It was no longer an utter stranger, but an eccentric acquaintance; a character, as characterless people call them.
"Yes?" And the Bishop listened attentively.
"I've doped it out—" pursued H. R., earnestly.
"I beg your pardon?" said the Bishop and blushed.
"I have arrived at a logical conclusion," translated H. R. "In short, I have found what will put Episcopalians, Presbyterians, Methodists, Lutherans, Jews, Parsees, and native-born Americans on the Christian map of New York. And it will not necessitate turning the unoccupied churches into restaurants or vaudeville shows."
H. R. turned his hypnotic look full on the Bishop, who read therein the desire to do.
"Thus must have looked HILDEBRAND!" thought the Bishop, in Roman capitals, in spite of himself. On second thought he remembered to characterize the language of Grace Goodchild's fiancé as "bizarre." Experience teaches that it is wisdom to encourage good intentions. This is done by listening.