"Lor, sir, how you talk! As if that would ever come to pass! But as William—that was my third—used to say: 'Many people talk like generals but have to live like privates.' There's no harm in your talking of being a bishop as long as you're content to live like a missionary. I must be going; I have a lot to do."
She bustled away, and with her went the smile that had rested on Alderbury's face. Eola watching him noted the change.
"What is it?" she asked. "You are troubled. Are you thinking of Ananda?"
"Yes; and I am blaming myself," he replied quickly. "There is so much I might have done to prevent this catastrophe if I had come when your brother called me. Instead of coming I wrote. It was not enough."
"I don't believe in a catastrophe. I don't believe that he is dead; I am sure Mrs. Hulver doesn't believe it or she would not be so indifferent. What do you fear?"
"That they have killed him between them."
"They would not dare! That would be murder and they would fear the penalty."
"Unfortunately there is no penalty in the case of an outcaste, a convert to Christianity. There might be some sort of a trial, but no judge in the State of Chirapore would do more than impose a slight punishment."
"Come into the fernery and look at my palms and lilies," she said, rising to get her hat.
She succeeded in dispersing the anxiety that had settled down upon him as he considered Ananda's case; and once more the convert was forgotten. Her hands were buried in the fronds of a maidenhair when he said suddenly: