The Bishop’s face flashed radiant. His right hand lifted in a quick gesture. “Can any man say anything more beautiful than that?”
“You mean,” stammered Newbold, “what?”
“I think I only meant,” hesitated the Bishop, “that I felt just that way about my child, and her mother. They belonged to each other, not to me. I was only fit to try to take care of them.”
“I have not taken,” said Newbold heavily, “much care of mine!”
“Oh, lad, lad,” said the Bishop, “don’t waste that privilege. It never—it never has grown easy—for me to live without it.”
Newbold’s words came in a whisper, to himself, “She does not expect it now. Perhaps she does not even wish it!”
The Bishop leaned slightly forward in his chair. “Newbold,” he said firmly, “between you and Harry there must be words, as between men. But, for Lois and the mother, downstairs, have you anything to do but to stretch out your hand? It is one of their mysteries, that women always understand better without words.”
Newbold dropped his forehead on interlaced fingers that concealed his face. He was long silent. His hands dropped at last from a face haggard, but a-shine with boyishness.
“Bishop,” he said, “you’ve made me feel a whole lot better!”
“I am glad!” For the first time in their talk the Bishop’s lip showed its slight palsied trembling.