A low laugh from Ethel, who had overheard his comment, caused the bishop to turn from his flurried hostess. “And what is Miss Ogden doing?” he asked.
“Teaching also,” she answered.
“The heathen?” and the bishop’s smile was infectious.
“Foreign diplomats,” Ethel looked demurely at her plate. “And Mr. Takasaki is so ungrateful that he is urging me to give up lessons and try writing.”
“Ah, and so increase your sphere of teaching?” The bishop was enjoying himself. “Why not try your hand at writing a tract which would be a ‘best seller’? That would be a greater achievement than writing a popular novel.”
“And require greater genius,” laughed Ethel. Her old buoyant spirit had returned since the scene in the drawing room. Her faith in Julian Barclay was not misplaced; his behavior in the face of James Patterson’s charges had proved that. And Patterson’s attack upon his character had not been backed up by Leonard McLane, as he had evidently expected and counted upon. And vindicated in one instance, Barclay would be also cleared of any implication in the murder of Dwight Tilghman, so ran Ethel’s subconscious thoughts, and her heart was filled with a great thanksgiving. Even unemotional Takasaki met her gay smile with a show of responsiveness, and the bishop had eaten his dinner with greater relish for the added spice of her merry mood.
“Genius is so misdirected these days,” sighed the bishop. “And few writers make the distinction between strength and coarseness. You can congratulate yourself, Mr. Takasaki,” as the Japanese attaché turned to join in their conversation, “that the problem novel has not struck Japan.”
Takasaki, when in doubt, always smiled, and the bishop envied him his strong white teeth. “Sanètomo Ito is our great national political writer,” he said. “He solves all what you call problems on paper.”
“I forgot your problems are mainly political,” responded the bishop, concealing a smile. “Ours, alas, embrace the home. What did you say, Mrs. Ogden?” and the bishop turned and gave his full attention to his hostess.
“Sanètomo Ito,” Ethel repeated the name thoughtfully. “Is he known in this country, Mr. Takasaki?”