Oh, but wasn't she glad father had stipulated they should spare no expense? It was a wonderful, delicious dinner, and when he turned from gay banter with Rosalie and Zee, to real intense discussion with her father, and always bending warm and friendly eyes on her—really, it was too good to be true.
"But I always said I liked him," she told herself, comfortably.
After that he came often to the manse, and many times he took them all out to the Haunted House, where Mr. Artman was immediately lost in the depths of huge volumes, and where Treasure and Zee wandered off to look for baby rabbits with the Corduroy Crab, who wasn't a bit crabbish any more, and where Rosalie flung herself into a big hammock with a plate of fruit and a chatty story—and what could he do, as host, but entertain Doris, who was left without other form of amusement?
"Oh, but you wait till the bishop comes," Rosalie whispered to Doris, when they were safe in the manse again. "What will he say to these carryings on? Your very own bishop—"
"He is not my very own bishop. And if he is, I will not have him. And it certainly is nothing to the bishop if father has a friend."
"I do not imagine the dear bishop cares two cents how many friends father has. But what your bishop will say to you is more than I can imagine. And who but a serious sensible girl would ever dream of bandying with a bishop? Frivolous and all as I am, General, I should never be guilty of trifling with a bishop's affections."
"He hasn't any."
"Oh, yes, he has. He has oceans of them. But what difference does it make to you how many affections he has?"
"No difference at all," admitted Doris, laughing. And she added, flushing a little, but still laughing, "But I should really like to know whether—father's friend—has any."
And then she ran away, before Rosalie could catch and shake her.