“Perfectly!” said Miss Chichester, retaining her hold on Barry’s arm notwithstanding the advent of the bishop and his caller.
“And what is Mr. Malleson’s opinion?” asked the bishop, advancing and shaking hands courteously with Miss Chichester and warmly with Barry, and thereby loosing the young lady’s grip on the coat-sleeve of a greatly perturbed young man.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter much what Barry thinks,” interposed the pompous lady, rustling her gorgeous green silk gown; “he’s more than half-converted to socialism, anyway.”
The bishop laughed.
“How’s that, Barry?” he inquired. “Has some one been leading you into by and forbidden paths?”
“No,” replied Barry, hesitatingly. “I mean, yes. Say, Bishop, I want to see you for a minute—alone—entirely alone; strictly confidential business.”
“Certainly!” replied the bishop, affably. “I’m sure the ladies will excuse us. They can discuss, in our absence, fashion, society, religion, suffrage, or the Church, as they choose.”
He bowed politely and smilingly to each woman in turn, drew Barry into the library, and closed the library door.
With a sigh of relief the rescued young man dropped into the nearest chair.
“She pretty near got me that time!” he exclaimed, pulling his handkerchief nervously from his pocket and wiping the perspiration from his forehead.