Of the Bishop’s Quandary
The Bishop nodded slowly. “’Tis just,” says he, “for tongues will wag”; and returned to the equable contemplation of his cushions. The imperturbable air of those fat features nettled me.
“Sometimes,” I resumed, “’tis true that I have fallen away from my own conception of myself. I have suffered from an egregious desire to sound of fine repute, to cut a figure in the world. That vice, we know, lies also in the heart of many a priest.”
The Bishop assented gravely. “But ’tis after all but a minor flaw,” said I, “in a character of cardinal virtues.” The Bishop waved his hand politely, as though deprecating a matter of small import.
“And then” said I. “But I fear I weary you?” The Bishop straightened himself upon his seat. “Indeed,” he replied, “I find your case of much interest and instruction.”
I vowed that I would break his resolute equanimity. “No man shall say,” says I with some heat, “that the Church has not ever had my inward fealty. Leal son have I been
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