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Evidently the performance had been a decided success, and would doubtless be a pecuniary triumph. The Bishop of Sunbury, seated near the Earl at the show, had largely expatiated on the good of rummaging into the puddle of London sewers, as he called it in his clerical language. It was by diving deep into the mud that one could drag out one’s erring brothers and sisters, and by bringing London face to face with its social problems one was able to grapple with the enemy—sin. At least, so thought the Bishop, and he endeavoured to persuade the Earl, which was a more difficult task than he believed. The prelate, holding Lord Somerville by one of his waistcoat buttons, had tried to make him appreciate Society’s unselfishness. “My dear Lord Somerville, we hear all about the frivolity of our privileged classes; much is said against them—too much, I fear, is written against the callousness of fashionable women; but I assure you, it is unjust. Many of these sisters of ours, who have to-night moved the public to enthusiasm, have themselves their burden to bear, and many have wept bitter tears over some lost one in Africa. Well, to quote one of them: as you know, the Countess of Lundy—who personified the matron of one of these disgraceful establishments—has last week lost her cherished brother (poor fellow, he died of wounds); but there you see her at her post of duty.”