"And your—er—quite unemotional and sudden interest in this—er—affair, Mr. Rutgers...."
"You mean, where do I come in?" cut in H. R.
The Bishop almost blushed as he shook his head and explained:
"Rather, your motive in undertaking so difficult...."
"Oh yes. You mean, why?"
"Yes," said the Bishop, and looked at H. R. full in the eyes.
"Because I desire to marry Grace Goodchild and I wish to be worthy of her. It is a man's job to jolt New York into a spasm of practical Christianity."
The Bishop smiled. After all, this was a boy, and his enthusiasm might make up for what his motive lacked in profundity of wisdom.
"And besides," went on H. R., in a lowered voice, "I hate to think that men can starve when I have enough to eat without earning my food." He smiled shamefacedly.
"My boy!" cried the Bishop, and shook the boy's hand warmly, "I'm afraid you are—"