only talk. He fished among natives, and among foreigners.

Foreigners were hard to catch, on Nepenthe. They came and went in such
breathless succession. Of the permanent residents only the Duchess,
always of High Church leanings, had of late yielded to his
blandishments. She was fairly hooked. Madame Steynlin, a lady of Dutch
extraction whose hats were proverbial, was uncompromisingly Lutheran.
The men were past redemption, all save the Commissioner who, however,
was under bad influences and an incurable wobbler, anyhow. Eames, the
scholar, cared for nothing but his books. Keith, a rich eccentric who
owned one of the finest villas and gardens on the place, only came to
the island for a few weeks every year. He knew too much, and had
travelled too far, to be anything but a hopeless unbeliever; besides,
he was a particular friend of his, with whom he agreed, in his heart of
hearts, on every subject. The frequenters of the Club were mostly
drunkards, derelicts, crooks, or faddist--not worth catching.

Arriages began to arrive on the scene. That of Don Francesco drove up
first of all. He stepped out and sailed across the piazza like a
schooner before the wind. But his discourse, usually ample and florid
as befitted both his person and his calling, was couched on this
occasion in Tacitean brevity.

"We have landed a queer fish, Duchess," he remarked. "He calls himself
Bishop of Bim-Bam-Bum, and resembles a broken-down matrimonial agent.
So lean! So yellow! His face all furrowed! He has lived very viciously,
that man. Perhaps he is mad. In every case, look to your purse, Mr.
Denis. He'll be here in a minute."

"That's quite right," said the young man. "The Bishop of Bampopo. It's