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The frequenters of the Club were mostly
drunkards, derelicts, crooks, or faddist--not worth catching.
Arriages began to arrive on the scene. That of Don Francesco drove up
first of all. He stepped out and sailed across the piazza like a
schooner before the wind. But his discourse, usually ample and florid
as befitted both his person and his calling, was couched on this
occasion in Tacitean brevity.
"We have landed a queer fish, Duchess," he remarked. "He calls himself
Bishop of Bim-Bam-Bum, and resembles a broken-down matrimonial agent.
So lean! So yellow! His face all furrowed! He has lived very viciously,
that man. Perhaps he is mad. In every case, look to your purse, Mr.
Denis. He'll be here in a minute."
"That's quite right," said the young man. "The Bishop of Bampopo. It's
in the NEW YORK HERALD. Sailing by the MOZAMBIQUE. But they didn't say
he was coming to the island. I wonder what he wants here?"
Don Francesco was aghast.
"Indeed?" he asked. "A bishop, and so yellow! He must have thought me
very rude," he added.


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