Since the Bishop was now obviously glad to listen, H. R. said, more earnestly than ever:
"Tell me, Bishop, what is it that is desirable to possess and more desirable to give, elevating, rare beyond words, thrice blessed, and beautiful as heaven itself?"
"Truth!" exclaimed the Bishop, his voice ringing with conviction and the pride of puzzle-solving. Being a human being, he had answered promptly.
H. R. shook his head and smiled forgivingly: "That's only theology; possibly metaphysics. Forget rhetoric and get down to cases. Truth! Pshaw! Can you imagine that combination of four consonants and one vowel serving as a political platform or included in any live concern's instructions to salesmen? Never! No, sir. Guess again! I've found it. Rare, picturesque, with great dramatic possibilities and easy to capitalize. It is—"
He paused and looked at the Bishop. The Bishop returned the look fascinatedly. This young man was from another world. What would he say next? And what would whatever he said mean?
"Charity!" exclaimed H. R., proudly.
The Bishop's face fell. You almost heard it.
H. R. shook a rigid forefinger at the Bishop's nose and said, in a distinctly vindictive voice:
"'But the greatest of these is charity'!"
"We always preach—" began the Bishop, defensively.