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him as odd. Chichester began to "chip in" now and then, and whenever he did so it was either to modify what Mr. Harding had just said, or to check him in what he was saying, or abruptly to introduce a new topic of talk. Sometimes Mr. Harding did not appear to notice these interruptions; at other times he obviously resented them; at others again he yielded with an air of anxiety, almost of fear, to his curate's attenuations or hastened to follow his somewhat surprising leads down new conversational paths. Malling could not understand Chichester. But it became evident to him that for some reason or other the curate was painfully critical of his rector, as sometimes highly sensitive people are critical of members of their own family. And Mr. Harding was certainly aware of this critical attitude, and at moments seemed to be defiant of it, at other moments to be almost terrorized by it.

      All that passed, be it noted, passed as between gentlemen, rather glided in the form of nuance than trampled heavily in more blatant guise. But Evelyn Malling was a highly trained observer and a man in whom investigation had become a habit. Now that he was no longer ill at ease he became deeply interested in the relations between the two men with whom he was walking. He was unable to understand them, and this fact of course increased his interest. Moreover he was surprised by the change he observed in Chichester.

      Although he had never been intimate with Henry Chichester, he had known him fairly well, and had summed him up as a very good man and a decidedly attractive man, but marred, as Malling thought, by a definite weakness of character. He had been too amiable, too ready to take others on their own valuation of themselves, too kind-hearted, and too easily deceived. The gentleness of a saint had been his, but scarcely the firmness of a saint. Industrious, dutiful, and conscientious, he had not struck Malling as a man of strong intellect, though he was a cultivated and well-educated man. Though not governed by his own passions—when one looked at him one had been inclined to doubt whether he had any—he had seemed prone to be governed by those about him, at any rate in little matters of every day. His charm had consisted in his transparent goodness, and in an almost gay kindliness which had seemed to float round him like an atmosphere. To look into his face had been to look at the happiness which comes only to those who do right things, and are at peace with their own souls.

      What could have happened to change this charming, if too pliant, personality into the critical, watchful, almost—so at moments it seemed to Malling—aggressive curate who was now, always in a gentlemanly way, making things rather difficult for his rector?

      And the matter became the more mysterious when Malling considered Mr. Harding. For here was a man obviously of dominant personality. Despite his fleeting subservience to Chichester, inexplicable to Malling, he was surely by far the stronger of the two, both in intellect and character. Not so saintly, perhaps, he was more likely to influence others. Firmness showed in his forcible chin, energy in the large lines of his mouth, decision in his clear-cut features. Yet there was something contradictory in his face. And the flitting melancholy, already remarked, surely hinted at some secret instability, perhaps known only to Harding himself, perhaps known to Chichester also.

      When the three men came to the turning at the corner of the Grosvenor

       Hotel, Chichester stopped short.

      "Here is our way," he said, speaking across Mr. Harding to Malling.

      The rector looked at Malling.

      "Have you far to go?" he asked, with rather a tentative air.

      "I live in Cadogan Square."

      "Of course. I remember. You told us you were going there."

      "Good-by," said Chichester. "We are taking the underground to South

       Kensington."

      "I think I shall walk," said the rector.

      "But you know we are due—"

      "There is plenty of time. Tell them I shall be there at four."

      "But really—"

      "Punctually at four. I will walk on with Mr. Malling."

      "I really think you had better not," began Chichester. "Over-exertion—"

      "Am I an invalid?" exclaimed Mr. Harding, almost sharply.

      "No, no, of course not. But you remember that yesterday you were not quite well."

      "That is the very reason why I wish to walk. Exercise always does my dyspepsia good."

      "Let us all walk," said the curate, abruptly.

      But this was obviously not Mr. Harding's intention.

      "I want you to go through the minutes and the accounts before the meeting," he said, in a quieter but decisive voice. "We will meet at the School at four. You will have plenty of time if you take the train. And meanwhile Mr. Malling and I will go on foot together as far as Cadogan Square."

      Chichester stood for a moment staring into Mr. Harding's face, then he said, almost sulkily:

      "Very well. Good-by."

      He turned on his heel, and was lost in the throng near the station.

      It seemed to Malling that an expression of relief overspread his companion's face.

      "You don't mind my company for a little longer, I hope?" said the rector.

      "I shall be glad to have it."

      They set out on their walk to Cadogan Square. After two or three minutes of silence the rector remarked:

      "You know Chichester well?"

      "I can hardly say that. I used to meet him sometimes with some friends of mine, the Crespignys. But I haven't seen him for more than two years."

      "He's a very good fellow."

      "An excellent fellow."

      "Perhaps a little bit limited in his outlook. He has been with me at St.

       Joseph's exactly two years."

      The rector seemed about to say more, then shut his large mouth almost with a snap. Malling made no remark. He was quite certain that snap was merely the preliminary to some further remark about Chichester. And so it proved. As they came to St. Peter's Eaton Square, the rector resumed:

      "I often think that it is a man's limitations which make him critical of others. The more one knows, the wider one's outlook, the readier one is to shut one's eyes to the foibles, even to the faults, of one's neighbors. I have tried to impress that upon our friend Chichester."

      "Doesn't he agree with you?"

      "Well—it's difficult to say, difficult to say. Shall we go by Wilton

       Place, or—?"

      "Certainly."

      "Professor Stepton has talked to me about you from time to time, Mr.

       Malling."

      "He's a remarkable man," said Malling almost with enthusiasm.

      "Yes. He's finding his way to the truth rather by the pathway of science than by the pathway of faith. But he's a man I respect. And I believe he'll get out into the light. You've done a great deal of work for him, I understand, in—in occult directions."

      "I have made a good many careful investigations at his suggestion."

      "Exactly. Now"—Mr. Harding paused, seemed to make an effort, and continued—"we know very little even now, with all that has been done, as to—to the possibilities—I scarcely know how to put it—the possibilities of the soul."

      "Very little indeed," rejoined Malling.

      He was considerably surprised by his companion's manner, but was quite resolved not to help him out.

      "The possibilities of one soul, let us say, in connection with another," continued the rector, almost in a faltering voice. "I often feel as if the soul were a sort of mysterious fluid, and that when we what is called influence another person, we, as it were, submerge his soul fluid in our own, as a drop

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