The Bishop winced again, and was holding out a limp hand for good-bye, when Barron said suddenly:
"Perhaps you will allow me one question, my lord? Has Meynell been to see you? Has he written to you even? I may say that I urged him to do so."
The Bishop was taken aback and saw no way out.
"I have had no direct communication with him," he said, reluctantly; "no doubt because of our already strained relations."
On Barron's lips there dawned something which could hardly be called a smile—or triumphant; but the Bishop caught it. In another minute the door had closed upon his visitor.
* * * * *
Barron walked away through the Close, his mind seething with anger and resentment. He felt that he had been treated as an embarrassment rather than an ally; and he vowed to himself that the Bishop's whole attitude had been grudging and unfriendly.
As he passed on to the broad stone pavement that bordered the south transept he became aware of a man coming toward him. Raising his eyes he saw that it was Meynell.
There was no way of avoiding the encounter. As the two men passed Barron made a mechanical sign of recognition. Meynell lifted his head and looked at him full. It was a strange look, intent and piercing, charged with the personality of the man behind it.
Barron passed on, quivering. He felt that he hated Meynell. The disguise of a public motive dropped away; and he knew that he hated him personally.