the members of the Chamber of Commerce, and after the luncheon Elmer and the bishop walked off together.
"My, my, I feel flattered that you should know so much about me! I am, after all, a very humble servant of the Methodist Church—of the Lord, that is—and I should not have imagined that any slight local reputation I might have would have penetrated into the New Thought world," breathed the bishop.
"Oh, I'm not a New Thoughter. I'm, uh, temporarily conducting these courses—as a sort of psychological experiment, you might say. Fact is, I'm an ordained Baptist preacher, and of course in seminary your sermons were always held up to us as models."
"I'm afraid you flatter me, Doctor."
"Not at all. In fact they attracted me so that—despite my great reverence for the Baptist Church, I felt, after reading your sermons, that there was more breadth and vigor in the Methodist Church, and I've sometimes considered asking some Methodist leader, like yourself, about my joining your ministry."
"Is that a fact? Is that a fact? We could use you. Uh—I wonder if you couldn't come out to the house tomorrow night for supper—just take pot-luck with us?"
"I should be most honored, Bishop."
Alone in his room, Elmer exulted, "That's the stunt! I'm sick of playing this lone game. Get in with a real big machine like the Methodists—maybe have to start low down, but climb fast—be a bishop myself in ten years—with all their spondulix and big churches and big membership and everything to back me up. Me for it. O Lord, thou hast guided me. . . . No, honest, I mean it. . . . No more hell-raising. Real religion from now on. Hurray! Oh, Bish, you watch me hand you the ole flattery!"
The Episcopal Palace. Beyond the somber length of the drawing-room an alcove with groined arches and fan-tracery—remains of the Carthusian chapel. A dolorous crucifixion by a pupil of El Greco, the sky menacing and wind-driven behind the gaunt figure of the dying god. Mullioned windows
