At eleven o'clock exactly he drove through the gates of the Palace of the bishop, and with no faltering hand pulled the bell. (So, he reflected for an instant,--only an instant,--Luther had gone, somewhere or other, he forgot at the moment what was the exact locality; but the occasion had been a momentous one in the history of the Church.)

He was cordially greeted by the bishop, who said:

"How do you do, Holland? I took it for granted that you were an early riser--that's why I ventured to name eleven."

"No hour could suit me better to-day," said George, accepting the seat --he perceived at once that it was a genuine Chippendale chair upholstered in old red morocco--to which his lordship made a motion with his hand. He did not, however, seat himself until the bishop had occupied, which he did very comfortably, the corresponding chair at the side of the study desk.

"I was anxious to have a chat with you about that book, and that article of yours in the /Zeit Geist/, Holland," said the bishop. "I wish you had written neither."

"/Litera scripta manet/," said George, with a smile.

One may quote Latin in conversation with a bishop without being thought a prig. In a letter to the /Times/ and in conversation with a bishop are the only two occasions in these unclassical days when one may safely quote Latin or Greek.

"That's the worst of it," said the prelate, with a shake of his head that was Early Norman. "Yes, you see a book isn't like a sermon. People don't remember a man's sermons against him nowadays; they do his books, however."