himself the luxury of absolute frankness, however, the artist confessed
that his animosity to the young rector had other causes.

As Fenton sank into his seat, Mrs. Staggchase leaned over to quote from
the poem,--

"'For Blougram, he believed, say, half he spoke.'"

The artist turned upon her a glance of comprehension and amusement, but
before he could reply, the rough, rather loud voice of Mr. Candish
arrested his attention.

"If the poem teaches anything," Mr. Candish said, speaking according to
his custom, somewhat too warmly, "it seems to me it is the sophistry of
the sort of talk which puts art above religion. The thing that offends
an honest man in Bishop Blougram is the fact that he looks at religion
as if it were an art, and not a vital and eternal necessity,--a living
truth that cannot be trifled with."

"Ah," Fenton's smooth and beautiful voice rejoined, "that is to
confound art with the artificial, which is an obvious error. Art is a
passion, an utter devotion to an ideal, an absolute lifting of man out
of himself into that essential truth which is the only lasting bond by
which mankind is united."

Fenton's coolness always had a confusing and irritating effect upon Mr.
Candish, who was too thoroughly honest and earnest to quibble, and far
from possessing the dexterity needed to fence with the artist. He began
confusedly to speak, but with the first word became aware that Mrs.
Fenton had come to the rescue. Edith never saw a contest between her