What a dear, innocent old soul the Bishop is! How sincerely he believes he is reasoning when he is merely doing a roguish two-step down the grim corridor of the eternal verities--with a little jig here and there, and a pause to flirt his frock airily in the face of some graven image of Fact.

Ah, he is so weirdly innocent.

Even when his logical toes go blithely into the air, his dear old face is most resolutely solemn, and I believe he is never in the least aware of his frivolous caperings over the floor of induction.

Indeed, his unconsciousness is what makes him an unfailing delight.

He even makes his good old short-worded Saxon go in lilting waltz-time.
You will never know, Grandad, what this book has done for me.