III
Into this room Elmer Gantry came with overpowering politeness. He bent, almost as though he were going to kiss it, over the hand of Mrs. Toomis, who was a large lady with eyeglasses and modest sprightliness, and he murmured, “If you could only know what a privilege this is!”
She blushed, and looked at the bishop as if to say, “This, my beloved, is a good egg.”
He shook hands reverently with the bishop and boomed, “How good it is of you to take in a homeless wanderer!”
“Nonsense, nonsense, Brother. It is a pleasure to make you at home! Before supper is served, perhaps you’d like to glance at one or two books and pictures and things that Mother and I have picked up in the many wanderings to which we have been driven in carrying on the Work. … Now this may interest you. This is a photograph of the House of Parliament, or Westminster, as it is also called, in London, England, corresponding to our Capitol in Washington.”
“Well, well, is that a fact!”
“And here’s another photo that might have some slight interest. This is a scene very rarely photographed—in fact it was so interesting that I sent it to the National Geographic Magazine, and while they were unable to use it, because of an overload of material, one of the editors wrote to me—I have the letter some place—and he agreed with me that it was a very unusual and interesting picture. It is taken right in front of the Sacra Cur, the famous church in Paris, up on the hill of Moant-marter, and if you examine it closely you will see by the curious light that it was taken just before sunrise! And yet you see how bully it came out! The lady to the right, there, is Mrs. Toomis. Yes, sir, a real breath right out of Paris!”
“Well, say, that certainly is interesting! Paris, eh!”
“But, oh, Dr. Gantry, a sadly wicked city! I do not speak of the vices of the French themselves—that is for them to settle with their own consciences, though I certainly do advocate the most active and widespread extension of our American Protestant missions there, as in all other European countries which suffer under the blight and darkness of Catholicism. But what saddens me is the thought—and I know whereof I speak, I myself have seen that regrettable spectacle—what would sadden you, Dr. Gantry, is the sight of fine young Americans going over there and not profiting by the sermons in stones, the history to be read in those historical structures, but letting themselves be drawn into a life of heedless and hectic gaiety if not indeed of actual immorality. Oh, it gives one to think, Dr. Gantry.”
“Yes, it certainly must. By the way, Bishop, it isn’t Dr. Gantry—it’s Mr. Gantry—just plain Reverend.”
“But I thought your circulars—”
“Oh, that was a mistake on the part of the man who wrote them for me. I’ve talked to him good!”
“Well, well, I admire you for speaking about it! It is none too easy for us poor weak mortals to deny honors and titles whether they are rightly or wrongly conferred upon us. Well, I’m sure that it is but a question of time when you will wear the honor of a Doctor of Divinity degree, if I may without immodesty so refer to a handle which I myself happen to possess—yes, indeed, a man who combines strength with eloquence, charm of presence, and a fine high-grade vocabulary as you do, it is but a question of time when—”
“Wesley, dear, supper is served.”
“Oh, very well, my dear. The ladies, Dr. Gantry—Mr. Gantry—as you may already have observed, they seem to have the strange notion that a household must be run on routine lines, and they don’t hesitate, bless ’em, to interrupt even an abstract discussion to bid us come to the festal board when they feel that it’s time, and I for one make haste to obey and—After supper there’s a couple of other photographs that might interest you, and I do want you to take a peep at my books. I know a poor bishop has no right to yield to the lust for material possessions, but I plead guilty to one vice—my inordinate love for owning fine items of literature. … Yes, dear, we’re coming at once. Toojoor la fam, Mr. Gantry!—always the ladies! Are you, by the way, married?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Well, well, you must take care of that. I tell you in the ministry there is always a vast, though often of course unfair, amount of criticism of the unmarried preacher, which seriously cramps him. Yes, my dear, we are coming.”
There were rolls hidden in the cornucopia-folded napkins, and supper began with a fruit cocktail of orange, apple, and canned pineapple.
“Well,” said Elmer, with a courtly bow to Mrs. Toomis, “I see I’m in high society—beginning with a cocktail! I tell you I just have to have my cocktail before the eats!”
It went over immensely. The bishop repeated it, choking.