over Chichester’s face, transforming it.  The anxiety of the master, product of vanity but also of sympathy, was overlaid by the powerful contempt of a man who longs to traverse misstatements but is forced by circumstances to keep silence.  And so certain was Malling that the cause of Mr. Harding’s perturbation lay in Chichester’s mental attitude, that he longed to spring up, to take the curate by the shoulders and to thrust him out of the church.  Then all would be well.  He knew it.  The rector’s self-confidence would return and, with it, his natural powers.

But now the situation was becoming painful, almost unbearable.

With every sentence the rector became more involved, more hesitating, more impotent.  The sweat ran down his face.  Even his fine voice was affected.  It grew husky.  It seemed to be failing.  Yet he would not cease.  To Malling he gave the impression of a man governed by a secret obstinacy, fighting on though he knew it was no use, that he had lost the combat.  Malling longed to cry out to him, “Give it up!”

The congregation coughed more persistently, and the lady with the fan began to ply her instrument of torture almost hysterically.

Suddenly Malling felt obliged to look toward the left of the crowded church.  Sitting up very straight, and almost craning his neck, he stared over the heads of the fidgeting people and met the eyes of a woman, the lady with the streak of white hair against whom he had pushed when coming in.

There was a look almost of anguish on her face.  She turned her eyes toward Mr. Harding.  At the same instant the rector saw Mailing in the congregation.  He stopped short, muttered an uneven sentence, then, forcing his voice, uttered in unnaturally loud tones the “Now to God the Father,” et cetera.

Henry Chichester rose in his stall with an expression of intense thankfulness, which yet seemed somehow combined with a sneer.

The collection was made.

Before the celebration some of the choir and two of the clergy, of whom Mr. Harding was one, left the church.  Henry Chichester and the fair, athletic-looking curate remained.  Mailing took his hat and made his way slowly to the door.  As he emerged a young man stopped him and said: 

“If you please, sir, the rector would like to speak to you if you could wait just a moment.  You are Mr. Malling, I believe.”

“Yes.  How could you know?”

“Mr. Harding told me what you were like, sir, and that you were wearing a tie with a large green stone in it.  Begging your pardon, sir.”

“I will wait,” said Malling, marveling at the rector’s rapid and accurate powers of observation.

Those of the congregation who had not remained for the celebration were quickly dispersing, but Malling now noticed that the lady with the white lock was, like himself, waiting for some one.  She stood not far from him.  She was holding a parasol, and looking down; she moved its point to and fro on the ground.  Several people greeted her.  Almost as if startled she glanced up quickly, smiled, replied.  Then, as they went on, she again looked down.  There was a pucker in her brow.  Her lips twitched now and then.