"Bishop? What bishop? Where's he at? Where'd we get him? You don't mean to say father brought a bishop here without a week's notice? Isn't that like a preacher?"
"Oh, girls, please get dressed and come and help me. The house is a sight. Treasure left that sticky stuff—"
"Papier-mâché," said Treasure with dignity. "It is very scholastic, we use it to make maps with. I guess it won't shock a bishop. But don't call it sticky stuff—say papier-mâché."
"I do not care what it is called, dear, it must not be left all over the chairs in the dining-room—not when there is a bishop in the state."
"It is a shame, General, that's what it is," said Rosalie penitently. "We'll just fly now, and help like good preachers. You run back to your pancakes, and don't worry."
They made so much haste after that to atone for their mischief that almost immediately they were down-stairs. Treasure hurriedly straightened the living-room, Rosalie set the table most irreproachably, and Zee slipped into the back yard and picked some golden glow.
"Oh, the roots were on the Davis side of the fence, but what I picked was on our side," she declared when Doris frowned at her. So Rosalie arranged the flowers in a big blue bowl on the table, and when the bishop and their father came down-stairs laughing agreeably, everything was lovely, and the girls were spotlessly clean, soft as to voice, and gentle as to manner. And although the bishop's eyes twinkled a little, his face was properly grave. He was not even as old as their father—think of that now—and a bishop—and he had a way of telling stories which was quite attractive in regular preachers but seemed a little out of harmony in a bishop—and in a few minutes they were all good friends.
"Is this the whole family?" asked the bishop, smiling on the three girls with approval.
"My oldest daughter, Doris, is getting breakfast. As a special treat, she is giving us pancakes and maple sirup, and she feels they require her constant presence. She will be in presently, however."
Doris, listening at the door, could have blessed her father for the words. He had spoken of the pancakes as a favor instead of dire necessity—and perhaps the bishop would think that ordinarily they had common things like bacon and eggs, and hot muffins, and strawberry preserves, and grapefruit. More than that, he had offered a half apology for her absence, and Doris flatly refused to appear. She would cook for the bishop, she would wash his dishes and make his bed—but look him in the face she could not.