Robert Grimshaw leaned forward over his stick. It was pleasant to him to come into contact with this representative of an unseen world--to come for a moment out of the ring, very visible and circumscribed, in which he moved. It gave him, as it were, a chance to stand upon a little hill and look down into the misty “affair” in which he was so deeply engaged. “Then you don’t advise me,” he said suddenly in English, “to pull up my sticks--to wash my hands of things and people and affections?” “Assuredly,” the priest said, “I do not advise you to give away your little dog for fear that one day it will die and rend your heart.” Grimshaw looked meditatively at Peter, who was flapping through the grass, his nose tracking some delicious odour beyond the path just opposite them. “I certainly will not give away my little dog,” Grimshaw said. He meditated for a little longer, then he stood up, straightening himself, with his stick behind his back. “I know I may not offer you my arm,” he said, “to take you back to your church.” The priest smiled gently. “That is forbidden to you,” he said, “for it would militate against the dignity of my appearance; but all other human contacts lie open to you. Cherish them.” The haughty curve of his brows became militant; his voice took on the tone of a challenger. “Go out into the world; help all that you may; induce all that you may to go into the right paths. Bring one unto the other, that mutual comprehension may result. That is the way of Christian fellowship; that is the way to bring about the peace of God on earth.” “And pray God to forgive any ill that I may do,” Grimshaw answered. “That, too,” the priest answered; and, tall, haughty, his brows very arched, his hair curled and his beard tended, he moved slowly away towards the gates, casting looks, apparently of indignation, at the chestnut-blossoms of the avenue. III THAT night Robert Grimshaw dined at the Langhams’. Little Kitty was still at Brighton with Katya, and the room, in the pleasant shade of a hanging-lamp above the table, was tranquil and soothing. Paul Langham, who was the director of a bank doing most of its business with the Orient, was a blond gentleman with a high nose, able to pass from the soup to the coffee without speaking a word. And having that afternoon purchased at a railway bookstall an engineer’s puzzle, by means of which sixteen crescents of orange-coloured cardboard could be made to fit the form of a perfect circle into a square box, Ellida was more engaged with these little coloured objects than with either of her companions. And suddenly Mr. Held was in the room. He had the air of springing from the dark floor into the little circle of light that the lamp cast. His black hair hung down over his ears, his great black eyes were luminous and very open, and his whole gentle being appeared to be pervaded by some deep excitement.