“Where is the race to take place?” persisted the bishop.
“At the Ravenswood Park race course,” answered the girl, and then, impulsively: “Why, bishop, I might almost be tempted to believe that you are going! Why not let me take you?” she pleaded, coaxingly, with sweet, pursed-up lips and chin stuck out coquettishly toward him.
She pictured to herself what a sensation she would create with a bishop on parade at the races. Well she knew that not a few would be there who would recognize them both, and she could imagine herself the cynosure of the eyes of hundreds of churchgoers transformed into racegoers on this Derby day.
The idea was positively entrancing! With glowing eyes and cheeks flushed at the thought, Miss Danvers awaited the bishop’s reply. It was merely a shake of the head, without comment on her daring.
Then the mother, having overheard the latter part of the conversation, turned to her daughter with gentle reproof:
“I’m surprised at you, Isobel, having the audacity to extend such an invitation to a bishop. It’s shocking bad taste, really. I’m ashamed of you.”
Naturally the conversation drifted into other channels.
During the rest of the meal the bishop was strangely distracted. On more than one occasion his hostess found it necessary to address the same remark to him, whereat he excused himself somewhat lamely for his inattention.
After they had risen from the board he pleaded some matter that needed his especial care, and retired to his chamber. Probably a half hour later Mrs. Danvers and the rector, who remained to talk over church affairs, saw the bishop descend the main stairway near the drawing room.
“He wishes to be alone still. I can tell by his expression,” said the rector. “I know him like a book. A queer man in some ways, but no better anywhere. Inclined too much to melancholy, and a trifle too straitlaced for his advanced age, perhaps.”