meeting of an hour, after lunch at the rectory, after seeing the bishop
off on the 2.45 to New York, he locked his door first, and then
hurriedly drew out the letter lying all this time unread. He tore
untidily at the flap, and with that suddenly he stopped, and the
luminous eyes took on an odd, sarcastic expression. "What a fool!" he
spoke, half aloud, and put the letter down and strolled across the room
and gazed out of the window. "What an ass! I'm allowing myself to get
personally interested in this case; or to imagine that I'm personally
interested. Folly. The girl is nothing to me. I'll never see her
again. I care about her as I would about anybody in trouble.
And--that's all. This lunacy of restlessness over the situation has
got--to--stop." He was firm with himself. He sat down at his table
and wrote a business note before he touched the letter again; but he
saw the letter out of the tail of his eye all the time and he knew his
pulse was going harder as, finally, he lifted the torn envelope with
elaborate carelessness, and drew out the sheets of writing.


My dear Mr. McBirney [the girl began], did anybody ever tell a story
about a big general who limbered up his artillery, if that's the thing
they do, and shouted orders, and cracked whips and rattled wheels and
went through evolutions, and finally, with thunder and energy, trained
a huge Krupp gun--or something--on a chipmunk? If there is such a
story, and you've heard it, doesn't it remind you of your last letter
at me? Not to me, I mean _at_ me. It was a wonderful letter again,
but when I got through I had a feeling that what I needed was not
suicide--I do dare say the word, you see--but execution. Maybe
shooting is too good for me. And you know I appreciate every minute
how unnecessary it is for you to bother with me, and to put your time
and your strength, both of which mean much to many people, into