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 in the NEW YORK HERALD. Sailing by the MOZAMBIQUE. But they didn't say he was coming to the island. I wonder what he wants here?"

Don Francesco was aghast.

"Indeed?" he asked. "A bishop, and so yellow! He must have thought me very rude," he added.

"You couldn't be rude if you tried," said the Duchess, giving him a playful slap with her fan.

She was burning with ardour to be the first to introduce such a lion to the local society. But fearful of making a FAUX PAS, she said:

"You'll go and speak to him, Denis. Find out if it's the right one—the one you read about in the paper, I mean. Then come and tell me."

"Good Lord, Duchess, don't ask me to do that! I couldn't tackle a bishop. Not an African. Not unless he has a proper apron on."

"Be a man, Denis. He won't bite a pretty boy like you."

"What nice things the lady is saying to you," observed Don Francesco.

"She always does," he laughed, "when she wants me to do something for her. I haven't been on this island long, but I have already found out the Duchess! You do it, Don Francesco. He is sure to be the right one. They get yellow, out there. Sometimes green."

Mr. Heard was intercepted on his way to the hotel by the genial priest, and formally presented to the Duchess. She was more than condescending to this stern and rather tired-looking man; she was gracious. She made all kinds of polite enquiries, and indicated the various sites and persons of interest; while Don Francesco, he observed, had unaccountably recovered from his sudden attack of bad humour on the steamer.

"And that is where I live," she said, pointing to a large and sever structure whose walls had plainly not been whitewashed for many long years. "It's an old disused convent, built by the Good Duke Alfred. Wasn't it, Denis?"

"I really couldn't say, Duchess. I never heard of the gentleman."

"That Good Duke was an unmitigated ruffian," observed Don Francesco.

"Oh, don't say that! Think of all the good he did for the island. Think of that frieze in the church! I have acres and acres of rooms to walk about in," she continued, addressing the bishop. "All by myself! I'm quite a hermit, you know. You will perhaps be able to have a cup of tea with me to-day?"

"Not exactly a hermit," Denis interposed.

"To take tea with the Duchess is an experience, a revelation," said Don Francesco in judicial tones. "I have enjoyed that meal in various parts of the world, but nobody can manage it like she can. She has the true gift. You will make tea for us in Paradise, dear lady. As to luncheon, let me tell you in confidence, Mr. Heard, that my friend Keith, whom you will meet sooner or later, has a most remarkable chef. What that man of Keith's cannot cook is not worth eating."

"How delightful!" replied the bishop, slightly embarrassed. "And where," he added, laughing—"where does one dine?"

"I don not dine. Madame Steynlin used to give nice evening parties," he continued reflectively, and with a shad of sadness in his voice. "Excellent little dinners! But she is so taken up with Russians just now; they quite monopolise her house. Down there; do you see, Mr. Heard? That white villa by the sea, at the end of the promontory? She is so romantic. That is why she bought a house which nobody else would have bought at any price. That little place, all by itself—it fascinated her. Bitterly she regrets her choice. She has discovered the drawbacks of a promontory. My dear Duchess, never live on a promontory! It has fearful inconveniences; you are overlooked by everybody. All the islands know what you do, and who visits you, and when, and why…. Yes, I remember those dinners with regret. Nowadays I must content myself with a miserable supper at home. The doctor has forbidden dinners. He says I am getting too fat."

Denis remarked:

"Your fat is your fortune, Don Francesco."

"My fortune, then, is a heavy load to bear. Mr. Keith tells me I have seven double chins, three behind and four in front. He says he has counted them carefully. He declares that an eighth is in course of formation. It is too much for a person of my austere temperament."

"You need never believe a word Keith says," said the Duchess. "He upsets me with his long words and his—his awful views. He really does."

"I tell him he is the Antichrist," observed Don Francesco, gravely shaking his head. "But we shall see! We shall catch him yet."

The Duchess had no idea what the Antichrist was, but she felt sure it was something not quite nice.

"If I thought he was anything like that, I would never ask him to my house again. The Antichrist! Ah, talk of angels—"

The person in question suddenly appeared, superintending half a dozen young gardeners who carried various consignments of plants wrapped up in straw which had arrived, presumably, by the steamer.

Mr. Keith was older than he looked—incredibly old, in fact, though nobody could bring himself to believe it; he was well preserved by means of a complicated system of life, the details of which, he used to declare, were not fit for publication. That was only his way of talking. He exaggerated so dreadfully. His face was clean-shaven, rosy, and of cherubic fulness; his eyes beamed owlishly through spectacles which nobody had ever seen him take off. But for those spectacles he might have passed for a well-groomed baby in a soap-advertisement. He was supposed to sleep in them.

It looked as if Mr. Keith had taken an instantaneous liking to the bishop.

"Bampopo? Why, of course. I've been there. Years and years ago. Long before your time, I'm afraid. How is the place getting on? Better roads, no doubt. And better food, I hope? I was much interested in that little lake—you know? It seemed to have no outlet. We must talk it over. And I like those Bulanga people—fine fellows! You liked them too?