"Tricks of that sort," he said, "won't do, Scrope—among professionals.
"And besides," he was inspired; "true religion is old wine—as old as the soul.
"You are a bishop in the Church of Christ on Earth," he summed it up.
"And you want to become a detached and wandering Ancient Mariner from your shipwreck of faith with something to explain—that nobody wants to hear. You are going out I suppose you have means?"
The old man awaited the answer to his abrupt enquiry with a handful of lozenges.
"No," said the Bishop of Princhester, "practically—I haven't."
"My dear boy!" it was as if they were once more rector and curate. "My dear brother! do you know what the value of an ex-bishop is in the ordinary labour market?"
"I have never thought of that."
"Evidently. You have a wife and children?"
"Five daughters."
"And your wife married you—I remember, she married you soon after you got that living in St. John's Wood. I suppose she took it for granted that you were fixed in an ecclesiastical career. That was implicit in the transaction."
