the Pan-Antis--was the most feared man in America. It was he whose
untiring organization had forced prohibition through the
legislatures of forty States--had closed the golf links on
Sundays--had made it a misdemeanor to be found laughing in public.
And here was this daring Quimbleton, living at the very sill of
the lion's den.

"By means of my disguise," whispered Quimbleton, "I was able to
make a pleasant impression on the Bishop. One evening I went to
call on him. I took the precaution to eat a green persimmon
beforehand, which distorted my features into such a malignant
contraction of pessimism and misanthropy that I quite won his
heart. He accepted an invitation to play croquet with me. That
afternoon I prepared the garden with a deluge of champagne. The
golden drops sparkled on every rose-petal: the lawn was drenched
with it. After playing one round the Bishop was gloriously
inflamed. He had to be carried home, roaring the most unseemly
ditties. Since then, as I say, he has grown (I fear) a trifle
suspicious. But let us have a bite of supper."

More than once, as they sat under a thickly leafy grape arbor in
the quiet green enclosure, Bleak had to pinch himself to confirm
the witness of his senses. A table was delicately spread with an
agreeable repast of cold salmon, asparagus salad, fruits, jellies,
and whipped creams. The flagon of dandelion vintage played its due
part in the repast, and Mr. Bleak began to entertain a new respect
for this common flower of which he had been unduly inappreciative.
Although the trellis screened them from observation, Quimbleton
seemed ill at ease. He kept an alert gaze roving about him, and
spoke only in whispers. Once, when a bird lighted in the foliage