And having established that Mrs. Bagot’s husband was able to provide for her and her children, and that they had, as she put it, enough, he proceeded to ask her a lot of questions, and she answered each question as easily and as proudly as though she were conducting him around her garden, or walking with him along a street in a country that was strange to him, although it had long been familiar to her. He asked her about her life, and as they spoke she had the feeling she was talking about someone who was very well known to her although they had never met. She was talking about herself, and she was amazed to find how much there was to be said about this person, herself, who had come into the conversation from nowhere and who was now becoming more real, although still invisible, with every word that was spoken. In response to the Bishop’s trust in her she spoke as though in Braille, feeling her way eagerly and with confidence along a path that she found she knew by heart, every inch of it, even in the dark. And as she spoke, that path, her life, became visible — a natural path that was in harmony with the surrounding countryside. She saw that although she had walked the path without assurance, she had kept to her appointed direction, and she had not trespassed, and she had made no undue demands, and she had not spoiled anything along the way. Or at least this person, herself, who had come into being without warning and who was now so real in the room, this person, still unknown and yet well known, at least to the Bishop, who was so curious about her and so interested in her — this person, Mrs. Bagot saw, had done nothing without good reason. Not only that, but this person the Bishop admired had done nothing wrong. In fact, it was all very interesting. Mrs. Bagot sighed deeply and then she looked horrified. She had forgotten herself before the Bishop. The Bishop was gazing at her with a timid smile, as though he had followed her thought. His smile was a crescent in his big oval face, which was very white, as though he had lost his color all at once, through illness. His lower lip was thick, and his upper lip was sharply pointed in the center so that it looked like a beak. They were lips that would have made a very resolute mouth when he was a young man. Mrs. Bagot looked devotedly at the old, ascetic, fleshy face, at the hooked nose, and at the faded blue eyes that watched her hopefully from far away, from Africa. The Bishop seemed to know that she was thinking of him now, because he began to speak again.

“You have the two little girls,” he said, “lovely children. And what other children have you, Delia?”