authoress," he said. "Indeed, I should not have dared to inflict my
troubles on any one not of the craft."

Mrs. Fetherel was quivering with the consciousness of her
involuntary self-betrayal. "Oh, uncle!" she murmured.

"In fact," the Bishop continued, with a gesture which seemed to
brush away her scruples, "I came here partly to speak to you about
your novel. 'Fast and Loose,' I think you call it?"

Mrs. Fetherel blushed assentingly.

"And is it out yet?" the Bishop continued.

"It came out about a week ago. But you haven't touched your tea, and
it must be quite cold. Let me give you another cup..."

"My reason for asking," the Bishop went on, with the bland
inexorableness with which, in his younger days, he had been known to
continue a sermon after the senior warden had looked four times at
his watch--"my reason for asking is, that I hoped I might not be too
late to induce you to change the title."

Mrs. Fetherel set down the cup she had filled. "The title?" she
faltered.

The Bishop raised a reassuring hand. "Don't misunderstand me, dear
child; don't for a moment imagine that I take it to be in anyway
indicative of the contents of the book. I know you too well for
that. My first idea was that it had probably been forced on you by