"But then--"
Old Likeman leant forward and pointed a bony finger. "Stay in the Church
and modify it. Bring this new light of yours to the altar."
There was a little pause.
"No man," the bishop thought aloud, "putteth new wine into old bottles."
Old Likeman began to speak and had a fit of coughing. "Some of these
texts--whuff, whuff--like a conjuror's hat--whuff--make 'em--fit
anything."
A man-servant appeared and handed a silver box of lozenges into which
the old bishop dipped with a trembling hand.
"Tricks of that sort," he said, "won't do, Scrope--among professionals.
"And besides," he was inspired; "true religion is old wine--as old as
the soul.
"You are a bishop in the Church of Christ on Earth," he summed it up.
"And you want to become a detached and wandering Ancient Mariner from
your shipwreck of faith with something to explain--that nobody wants to
hear. You are going out I suppose you have means?"
The old man awaited the answer to his abrupt enquiry with a handful of
lozenges.
"No," said the Bishop of Princhester, "practically--I haven't."
"My dear boy!" it was as if they were once more rector and curate.
Pages:
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173