possibly a lunatic; one of those harmless enthusiasts who go about the
world imagining themselves to be the Pope or the Archangel Gabriel.
However that might be, he said not another word, but took to reading
his breviary in good earnest, for the first time.

The boat anchored. Natives poured out in a stream. Mr. Muhlen drove up
alone, presumably to his sumptuous hotel. The bishop, having gathered
his luggage together, followed in another carriage. He enjoyed the
drive along that winding upward track; he admired the festal
decorations of the houses, the gardens and vineyards, the many-tinted
rock scenery overhead, the smiling sunburnt peasantry. There was an air
of contentment and well-being about the place; something joyful,
opulent, almost dramatic.

"I like it," he concluded.

And he wondered how long it would be before he met his cousin, Mrs.
Meadows, on whose account he had undertaken to break the journey to
England.

Don Francesco, the smiling priest, soon outstripped both of them, in
spite of a ten minutes' conversation on the quay with the pretty
peasant girl of the steamer. He had engaged the fastest driver on the
island, and was now tearing frantically up the road, determined to be
the first to apprise the Duchess of the lunatic's arrival.