Mr. Fielding was silent a moment. "Has the boy talked to you?" he asked.
The Bishop nodded. "It's the worst trouble I've ever had. It would kill
me to see him marry that man's daughter. I can't and won't resign myself
to it. Why should I? Why should Dick choose, out of all the world, the
one girl in it who would be insufferable to me. I can't give in about
this. Much as Dick is to me I'll let him go sooner. I hope you'll see
I'm right, Jim, but right or wrong, I've made up my mind."

The Bishop stretched a large, bony hand across the little table that
stood between them. Fielding's fell on it. Both men smoked silently for
a minute.

"Have you anything against the girl, Dick?" asked the Bishop, presently.

"That she's her father's daughter--it's enough. The bad blood of
generations is in her. I don't like the South--I don't like
Southerners. And I detest beyond words Fairfax Preston. But the girl is
certainly beautiful, and they say she is a good girl, too," he
acknowledged, gloomily.

"Then I think you're wrong," said the Bishop.

"You don't understand, Jim," Fielding took it up passionately. "That man
has been the _bête noir_ of my life. He has gotten in my way
half-a-dozen times deliberately, in business affairs, little as he
amounts to himself. Only two years ago--but that isn't the point after
all." He stopped gloomily. "You'll wonder at me, but it's an older feud
than that. I've never told anyone, but I want you to understand, Jim,
how impossible this affair is." He bit off the end of a fresh cigar,