He was at all events physically hard and well-conditioned, evidently a man accustomed to self-control. As his appearance became gradually more familiar I found something strangely likeable in it.
His conversation so far was evidently a thing of habit, a mechanical process like most people’s reading, quite unrelated to any cerebral process behind it. I began to wish that he would stop doing it and let us talk.
Through the vision he had unwittingly called up in my mind of a frowsy bar-parlour with seafaring men on horse-hair seats expectorating and drinking sherry, I heard the bishop apologising to Edmund for his presence.
“I did give your brother a chance of putting me off,” he explained; “but he was too kind to do it. We don’t often meet, and he knows how I value these little escapes into his delightful bachelordom. Besides, he knew how much I wanted to make your acquaintance.”
“It’s very kind of you to come in spite of us, my Lord,” said Edmund. “I’m afraid we’ll be rather in the way of your Byzantine conversation.”
“From what your brother has told me, I should say you and Captain Welfare have more of the Byzantine spirit than either of us.”
“The worst of me is that I don’t even know what the Byzantine spirit is!” Edmund warned him.
“And we can only guess,” said the bishop. “But they strove and fought, and they did make an Empire out of the ruins of an older one—even if they didn’t make a very good one.”
“I’m afraid,” said Edmund with a self-conscious smile, “Welfare and I cannot pretend to be empire-builders. We’re only business men and sailors.”
“Those are two of the essentials. But I don’t think it’s empire-builders we want. It’s empire-repairers.”