"You will like it. The people are intelligent. There is good food and
wine. Our lobsters are celebrated. You will find compatriots on the
island, some ladies among them; the Duchess of San Martino, for
instance, who happens to be an American; some delightful ladies! And
the country girls, too, are worthy of a benevolent glance--"

"That procession is sure to interest me. What is the name of your
patron?"

"Saint Dodekanus. He has a wonderful history. There is an Englishman on
Nepenthe, Mr. Earnest Eames, a student, who will tell you all about it.
He knows more about the saint than I do; one would think he dined with
him every evening. But he is a great hermit--Mr. Eames, I mean. And it
is so good of our old bishop to come over," he pursued with a shade of
emphasis. "His work keeps him mostly on the mainland. He has a large
see--nearly thirty square miles. How large, by the way, is your
diocese?"

"I cannot give you the exact figures," Mr. Heard replied. "It has often
taken me three weeks to travel from one end to the other. It is
probably not much smaller than the kingdom of Italy."

"The kingdom of Italy. Indeed!"

That settled it. The conversation died abruptly; the friendly priest
relapsed into silence. He looked hurt and disappointed. This was more
than a joke. He had done his best to be civil to a suffering foreigner,
and this was his reward--to be fooled with the grossest of fables. Maybe
he remembered other occasions when Englishmen had developed a queer
sense of humour which he utterly failed to appreciate. A liar. Or