The captive monkey, reduced by grief and age to the lowest and farthest corner of her cage at the zoo, watches the crowd that stares at her with an acceptance so profound it shines like sympathy. All struggle had vanished from the old Bishop’s eyes, and Mrs. Bagot saw that he was close to death. She lifted her hands and gave him a smile of tremulous indignation, showing him how, one morning, she would face her own death.

“We have the tea all ready for you, Your Grace,” she said.

“God bless you,” he said, “but never mind ‘Your Grace.’ I’m a very plain priest. ‘Father,’ or ‘Father Tom,’ whichever you like. Delia, is it? Am I right? You’re the image of your grandmother, Delia.”

Mrs. Bagot was amazed by the Bishop’s voice. She had expected smooth, sanctified tones, the voice of an ecclesiastical dignitary, and instead she heard the rough, warm, monotonous accents of home. Mrs. Bagot thought, He sounds like one of my own brothers. She moved alongside him, keeping step with the chauffeur, who was on his other side, and together they guided him onto the narrow red path that had been washed twice that day, first by Mrs. Bagot and then by a soft shower of rain that still glistened in the grass and over the yellows, whites, and mauves in the flower bed.

The Bishop steadied himself against the railing that separated Mrs. Bagot’s tiled path from her neighbor’s.

“I’ll be all right now,” he said to the chauffeur. “Thanks very much.”

“Mother, there’s a lady in the car,” Lily whispered.

“That’s Mrs. Sheffield Smith,” the Bishop said. “A very good woman. If it hadn’t been for her I never would have managed to get here today.”

Mrs. Bagot had never heard of her, and she began to think anxiously that she should run back and invite the stranger in for tea along with the Bishop, but she was busy guiding him into the house and into the sitting room and into the chair she had ready for him.

Mrs. Bagot did not doubt that Mrs. Sheffield Smith was a very good woman, but she thought she must be a very strange woman, and very self-important, that she did not even bother to look out at Margaret, who still stood with her back pressed against the railing, staring at the car. Mrs. Sheffield Smith must be very rich. The house she lived in must be very large, and no doubt there was a great deal that was beneath her notice. She had done them all a kindness by giving the Bishop a lift over, but it was a pity she couldn’t have taken a minute to admire Margaret standing there in her best dress.