He turned to her with his last flicker of passion.

“Because to this end was I born, and for this cause came I into the world, that I should bear witness unto the truth,” he answered.

He sank back a huddled heap upon the chair.  There was foam about his mouth, great beads of sweat upon his forehead.  Mary wiped them away with a corner of her apron, and felt again his trembling hands.  “Oh, please don’t talk to him any more,” she pleaded, “not till he’s had his supper.”  She fetched her fine shawl, and pinned it round him.  His eyes followed her as she hovered about him.  For the first time, since he had entered the room, they looked human.

They gathered round the table.  Mr. Baptiste was still pinned up in Mary’s bright shawl.  It lent him a curious dignity.  He might have been some ancient prophet stepped from the pages of the Talmud.  Miss Ensor completed her supper with a cup of tea and some little cakes:  “just to keep us all company,” as Mary had insisted.

The old fanatic’s eyes passed from face to face.  There was almost the suggestion of a smile about the savage mouth.

“A strange supper-party,” he said.  “Cyril the Apostate; and Julius who strove against the High Priests and the Pharisees; and Inez a dancer before the people; and Joanna a daughter of the rulers, gathered together in the house of one Mary a servant of the Lord.”

“Are you, too, a Christian?” he asked of Joan.

“Not yet,” answered Joan.  “But I hope to be, one day.”  She spoke without thinking, not quite knowing what she meant.  But it came back to her in after years.

The talk grew lighter under the influence of Mary’s cooking.  Mr. Baptiste could be interesting when he got away from his fanaticism; and even the apostolic Mr. Simson had sometimes noticed humour when it had chanced his way.

A message came for Mary about ten o’clock, brought by a scared little girl, who whispered it to her at the door.  Mary apologized.  She had to go out.  The party broke up.  Mary disappeared into the next room and returned in a shawl and bonnet, carrying a small brown paper parcel.  Joan walked with her as far as the King’s Road.

“A little child is coming,” she confided to Joan.  She was quite excited about it.

Joan thought.  “It’s curious,” she said, “one so seldom hears of anybody being born on Christmas Day.”

They were passing a lamp.  Joan had never seen a face look quite so happy as Mary’s looked, just then.

“It always seems to me Christ’s birthday,” she said, “whenever a child is born.”

They had reached the corner.  Joan could see her bus in the distance.

She stooped and kissed the little withered face.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered.

Mary gave her a hug, and almost ran away.  Joan watched the little child-like figure growing smaller.  It glided in and out among the people.