“Not worse than usual, thanks. I am all right myself, but anxious, Davoren, as we all must be. Europe seems to be steadily and deliberately making for war and catastrophe, and at home we have want of unity, lack of discipline, loss of faith. For us Churchmen especially, the time is perplexing and distressing.”
“I know,” I said with the old feeling of humiliation at my own helplessness, my own failure to take my share in the battles of the world and of the Church, my own desire to settle back into my little rut in life.
“I wish I could help,” I sighed.
“You do,” said the bishop; “you help me more than you know.”
There was a long silence, full of gratitude on my part, as I got my horse into his stride along a level stretch of the coast-road, while the bishop leaned back in his seat, enjoying the pleasing swing of the dog-cart, so much dearer to both of us than the fussy impetuosity of a motor-car, the true symbol of this age of blatant hurry.
“By the way,” Parminter asked suddenly, “where is your brother now?”
“Somewhere between here and Marseilles, unless the Astarte has not reached port yet. I have not heard.”
There was a constraint in my voice which the bishop must have noticed.
“But you expect him back?” he asked.
“Oh yes. He will come here as soon as he can.”