“What are they?” the doctor insisted.
The bishop drew a long puff at his pipe and gazed off toward the hollyhocks, where a vivid blur of cherry lay in the swinging green. He took the pipe from his mouth and held it on the table. The back of his hand just touched his friend’s. “Two things. One is, if I could get hold of Basil Lynn and make that thing straight. The other”—he hesitated, and then snapped out: “I do hate to have this place go to the Williamsons.”
Out of his sadness the doctor laughed. “It shouldn’t have to,” he agreed. “Why not make a hospital?”
“Not much.” The bishop’s eyes flashed. “Butchers in white pajamas—like you—around my halls? No, thank you. And I’ve left stacks of money to hospitals, Jim—don’t nag me—you know that. This place is different—it’s got to belong to people, not charity boards. Yet Tom Williamson doesn’t differ much from a board,” and he smiled sidewise.
“Thoroughly good.”
“Good? Oh, mercy, he’s good,” groaned the bishop. “But he’d never give Billy sugar. And imagine the dogs playing with Tom Williamson! And so dull, Jim—so deadly dull! If I heard—Tom—talking platitudes in my garden”—the bishop brought his fist down with a thump—“I’d come back. I’d have to. The digitalis would die—drought kills it.”
“Tom’s not the point,” Fletcher suggested. “Not your cousin.”
“No, it’s Anita,” assented the bishop, and knocked the ashes from his pipe. Then, confidentially: “She’s so fat.”
“Jerry,” said the doctor, “you may be a bishop, but you’re unregenerate and full of sin.”
“I am ashamed, Jim. Poor old Tom—he is a nice fellow, and Anita is kind. I’m sorry, Jim,” the bishop said penitently, and then changed as swiftly. “All your fault. I only talk this way to you. You always did inspire me with the devil.” And they laughed a little together.