“What name, sir?”
“Chisely,” said Joyce, instinctively, then he coloured. It was odd that he should have been taken off his guard.
The servant showed him into the library. A glance proved that Everard no longer inhabited it. No trace of the dilettante was visible in its homely comfort. Presently the door opened, and the Rector, a kindly grey-bearded man, entered the room. Joyce made his apology for intrusion.
“I came down expecting to find Canon Chisely. I am a distant relation of his, not long come from abroad.”
“I fear you have come on a vain errand,” said the Rector with a smile. “He took over his diocese in New Zealand some months ago.”
“His diocese?” repeated Joyce.
“Dear me, have n’t you heard? Canon Chisely accepted the bishopric of Taroofa at the beginning of the year.”
“How very extraordinary!” said Joyce, nonplussed. But the other took his remark literally.
“Yes, it is singular. Most people think he has thrown himself away. A very able man, you know—quite young. He might have had an English bishopric if he had waited.”
“And Mrs. Chisely?” asked Joyce, interrogatively.