"Suffer me to proceed in my own way, please, and bear with me if I am prolix. I am in no happy mind. I went to that play as a public duty, and I took my daughter that she might see for herself the truth about the Socialists and the godless anarchy they preach. You had made no mention of your intention to be present, and I was glad to think that you would be quietly at Oxford. I had heard from Gerald—than whom you have no greater friend—that you were associating with disreputable and doubtful people, forsaking men of your own class and living an extraordinary life."
"It was a lie," the duke answered shortly. "Gerald has been ill in bed, he has been misinformed."
"It was not only Gerald," the old man went on, "but letters reached me from other sources, letters full of the most disturbing details."
"Do you set spies upon my actions, Lord Camborne?"
"That is unworthy of you, John," the bishop answered gently, "unworthy both of you and of me. You are well aware that I could not stoop to such a thing. Do you forget that in your high position, with all its manifold responsibilities to God, to your country, and to yourself, your movements and dispositions are the object of the most wise and watchful scrutiny on the part of your tutors?"
"I am sorry I spoke wrongly."
"I make allowances for you. The word was nothing, but it is a far harder task to make allowances for you in another way. You seem to have committed yourself irrevocably."
The old man's voice had become very stern. The duke saw at once that he had read the Daily Wire. He said nothing.
"You have been a traitor to your order," the pitiless voice went on. "You have publicly blasphemed against the wise ordinances of God. A great peer of England, pledged to support the Throne, you have cast in your lot with those who would destroy it. I say this in the full persuasion that the report of what occurred last night is correctly set forth in that pestilent news-sheet, the Daily Wire."
"It is perfectly true," said the duke.