"Wait," said the Bishop, and he rose to close the window, for the clamour of the crows was deafening—a trial must have been going on in the trees. Returning to his seat he said:
"Dear lady, you must understand that there is one offence, and only one, which in all Christian countries and civilised communities is considered sufficient to constitute a real and tangible grievance. Have you any evidence of that?"
I knew what he meant and I felt myself colouring to the roots of my hair. But gulping down my shame I recounted the story of the scene in Paris and gave a report of my maid's charges and surmises.
"Humph!" said the Bishop, and I saw in a moment that he was going to belittle my proofs.
"Little or no evidence of your own, apparently. Chiefly that of your maid. And ladies' maids are notorious mischief-makers."
"But it's true," I said. "My husband will not deny it. He cannot."
"So far as I am able to observe what passes in the world," said the Bishop, "men in such circumstances always can and do deny it."
I felt my hands growing moist under my gloves. I thought the Bishop was trying to be blind to what he did not wish to see.
"But I'm right, I'm sure I'm right," I said.
"Well, assuming you are right, what is it, dear lady, that you wish me to do?"