But the bishop was a man of the world and his books fairly represented his tastes. He had a complete Dickens, a complete Walter Scott, Tennyson in the red-line edition bound in polished tree calf with polished gilt edges, many of the better works of Macaulay and Ruskin and, for lighter moments, novels by Mrs. Humphry Ward, Winston Churchill, and Elizabeth of the German Garden. It was in travel and nature-study that he really triumphed. These were represented by not less than fifty volumes with such titles as How to Study the Birds, Through Madagascar with Camp and Camera, My Summer in the Rockies, My Mission in Darkest Africa, Pansies for Thoughts, and London from a Bus. Nor had the bishop neglected history and economics: he possessed the Rev. Dr. Hockett’s Complete History of the World: Illustrated, in eleven handsome volumes, a secondhand copy of Hartley’s Economics, and The Solution of Capitalism vs. Labor—Brotherly Love.
Yet not the fireplace, not the library, so much as the souvenirs of foreign travel gave to the bishop’s residence a flair beyond that of most houses in Devon Woods. The bishop and his lady were fond of travel. They had made a six months’ inspection of missions in Japan, Korea, China, India, Borneo, Java, and the Philippines, which gave the bishop an authoritative knowledge of all Oriental governments, religions, psychology, commerce, and hotels. But besides that, six several summers they had gone to Europe, and usually on the more refined and exclusive tours. Once they had spent three solid weeks seeing nothing but London—with side-trips to Oxford, Canterbury, and Stratford—once they had taken a four-day walking trip in the Tyrol, and once on a channel steamer they had met a man who, a steward said, was a Lord.
The living-room reeked with these adventures. There weren’t exactly so many curios—the bishop said he didn’t believe in getting a lot of foreign furniture and stuff when we made the best in the world right here at home—but as to pictures—The Toomises were devotees of photography, and they had brought back the whole world in shadow.
Here was the Temple of Heaven at Peking, with the bishop standing in front of it. Here was the Great Pyramid, with Mrs. Toomis in front of it. Here was the cathedral at Milan, with both of them in front of it—this had been snapped for them by an Italian guide, an obliging gentleman who had assured the bishop that he believed in prohibition.
III
Into this room Elmer Gantry came with overpowering politeness. He bent, almost as though he were going to kiss it, over the hand of Mrs. Toomis, who was a large lady with eyeglasses and modest sprightliness, and he murmured, “If you could only know what a privilege this is!”
She blushed, and looked at the bishop as if to say, “This, my beloved, is a good egg.”
He shook hands reverently with the bishop and boomed, “How good it is of you to take in a homeless wanderer!”
“Nonsense, nonsense, Brother. It is a pleasure to make you at home! Before supper is served, perhaps you’d like to glance at one or two books and pictures and things that Mother and I have picked up in the many wanderings to which we have been driven in carrying on the Work. … Now this may interest you. This is a photograph of the House of Parliament, or Westminster, as it is also called, in London, England, corresponding to our Capitol in Washington.”
“Well, well, is that a fact!”
“And here’s another photo that might have some slight interest. This is a scene very rarely photographed—in fact it was so interesting that I sent it to the National Geographic Magazine, and while they were unable to use it, because of an overload of material, one of the editors wrote to me—I have the letter some place—and he agreed with me that it was a very unusual and interesting picture. It is taken right in front of the Sacra Cur, the famous church in Paris, up on the hill of Moant-marter, and if you examine it closely you will see by the curious light that it was taken just before sunrise! And yet you see how bully it came out! The lady to the right, there, is Mrs. Toomis. Yes, sir, a real breath right out of Paris!”
“Well, say, that certainly is interesting! Paris, eh!”
“But, oh, Dr. Gantry, a sadly wicked city! I do not speak of the vices of the French themselves—that is for them to settle with their own consciences, though I certainly do advocate the most active and widespread extension of our American Protestant missions there, as in all other European countries which suffer under the blight and darkness of Catholicism. But what saddens me is the thought—and I know whereof I speak, I myself have seen that regrettable spectacle—what would sadden you, Dr. Gantry, is the sight of fine young Americans going over there and not profiting by the sermons in stones, the history to be read in those historical structures, but letting themselves be drawn into a life of heedless and hectic gaiety if not indeed of actual immorality. Oh, it gives one to think, Dr. Gantry.”
“Yes, it certainly must. By the way, Bishop, it isn’t Dr. Gantry—it’s Mr. Gantry—just plain Reverend.”
“But I thought your circulars—”
“Oh, that was a mistake on the part of the man who wrote them for me. I’ve talked to him good!”
“Well, well, I admire you for speaking about it! It is none too easy for us poor weak mortals to deny honors and titles whether they are rightly or wrongly conferred upon us. Well, I’m sure that it is but
