“You forget!” said the Bishop’s voice, low and keen. There was a tiny fleck of red upon his cheek bones. Dr. Judd’s forced resignation had been a matter of disagreement between the congregation of St. John’s and the Bishop. There was perhaps no connection between the action of the vestry and the fact that Dr. Newbold, immediately called to the parish, had been for years a friend of the Senior Warden, and a prominent co-worker with him in diocesan affairs; the wires of diocesan politics sometimes presented a strange network for feet like the Bishop’s.
The Bishop was silent a moment, for the Rector’s hand, lying square upon the cushion, had recalled to him the days when he had sometimes involuntarily closed his eyes against the sight of his young secretary’s finger nails. It was an exquisitely kept hand nowadays, yet one that looked unhealthily inactive rather than sleek.
“Well,” mused the Bishop, at last, “if one can’t cut out any of these social obligations, how about the committees?”
Pity for the quick start and the flush of hurt pride, made him add instantly, “Not that the committees can spare you. The church needs you, and we should only be sparing you for a little while to save you for bigger service afterwards.”
“I should regret,” replied Dr. Newbold firmly, while glancing down in some embarrassment, “withdrawing from any service to the diocese,—just now.”
“Why just now?”
The Rector lifted his lids for a quick glance, then dropped his eyes again to his uneasy foot, “The affairs of the diocese, as well as those of the church at large, are passing through a critical period.”
“Sufficient to justify the loss of your health?”
“I feel that the diocese needs me, Bishop.”
“It needs us all.”