Of the Bishop’s Quandary
would have engaged me very pleasantly upon another occasion, fell somewhat inopportune. I am an old man, and have tired. If you will be so good as to leave me, betwixt now and the return of my coachman with the horses I shall have the felicitous chance of sleep.”
“My lord,” I answered amiably, for my ill-humour was gone, and I liked the possession of the man, “I wish you the deepest of slumber”—he inclined his head courteously. “And if,” says I, “there is any favour you might require of me ere I go, why, damn it,” says I, “you shall have it, and welcome.”
“My good Ryder, as that is your name,” said the Bishop suavely, “nothing in the world, I assure you, save perhaps that you will adjust the window, for the night is falling very shrewd.”
I threw Calypso’s bridle over my arm and bent myself to his request. As I finished, and was on the point of slapping to the door, the Bishop glanced at me. “I fear,” said he, with another smile, “that none of the guineas in that somewhat lean purse will find their way to church. ’Tis, of course, no business
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