pursuit. Unawake himself to modern art tendencies, he felt, without
conscious reflection or comparison, the old-fashioned appearance of the
house. The severe, dark paper on the wall, the steel engravings that
had hung for years untouched, were evidently as the bishop's wife, or
as one belonging to a still earlier generation, had placed them. They
proclaimed a reverence for old associations, or the indifference of an
unmarried daughter to the artistic possibilities of a house that was
not of her own choosing.

The room into which they entered appeared to be the bishop's own, or a
guest chamber. At least, there was no suggestion of the feminine in
the furniture, or in the ecclesiastical pictures that adorned the
walls. Even the military brushes on the bureau possessed an episcopal
dignity of size and weight, and the two tall candles in their massive
silver candlesticks glimmered like altar lights.

"There's plenty of atmosphere in this place," Leigh remarked, as he
stood before the mirror and applied the brushes to his hair, which,
because of its thickness, was invariably disordered by the lifting of
his hat. "I mean atmosphere in the modern fictional sense. It seems
to me I saw a duplicate of that four-posted monstrosity of a bed at the
Exposition this summer."

"I love to come in contact with the fresh, unprejudiced view of the
West," Cardington returned. "I've no doubt you are calculating the
number of microbes that ancient piece of furniture could accommodate,
and thinking that a brass bedstead would be much more sanitary."

"You do me injustice," Leigh retorted good-humouredly. "Even
scientists have their unprofessional moments. I was just reminded of a