The Bishop, who was passing our table in the company of a handsomely pale youth whose contemplation of orders shone in his face like some cherished sin, stopped and, with a smile, shook Clarissa’s hand.
“Ah, how are you? I missed you the other night at Agnes’s. She told me you’ve been engaged in social work.”
“A euphemism, Bishop.” Clarissa introduced me and the prelate moved on to his table, a robust gray-haired man with good coloring and a look of ease.
“Catholic?”
“No, Episcopal. I like them the best, I think. They adore society and good works ... spiritual Whigs you might call them, a civilizing influence. Best of all, so few of them believe in God, unlike the Catholics or those terrible Calvinist peasants who are forever saving themselves and damning others.”
“I think, Clarissa, you’re much too hard on the Episcopalians. I’m sure they must believe what they preach. At least the clergy do.”
“Well, we shall probably never know. Social work! I knew Agnes would come up with something altogether wrong. Still, I’m just as glad it’s not out yet. Not until the big debut tomorrow afternoon. I hope you’ve made arrangements to be near a television set. No? Then come to my place and we’ll see it together. Cave’s asked us both to the station, by the way, but I think it better if we not distract him.”
“Iris came East with him?”
“Indeed she did. They both arrived last night. I thought you’d talked to her.”
“No. I haven’t been in touch with either of them since I got back to New York. Paul’s the only one I ever see.”