“In that last article of St. George Mivart’s,” continued Mr. Waring, “we find a marked evidence of the deteriorating effect of any special bias on a man’s mind. If this man were not an ardent churchman of the Romish persuasion I have always thought he might have done well in literary science, but as it is—it seems to me he has so much confused the thread of his discourse as to render it comparatively valueless by weaving into it, with most conscientious persistence, stray fragments of the deductions he has drawn from his own crude creed. This demands, on the reader’s part, a searching, sifting process, which the intrinsic value of the gentleman’s articles to my mind hardly warrants.” “Ah, you like your science neat,” said the rector, “so possibly might I, if I had time to collect my own facts.” “Ah, but for work that must last, time and an undivided mind are necessities, no matter what the cause may be that clouds the brain.” He looked at his wife, and his floating, near-sighted eyes grew dim with tender pain, and the tendril-like movement of his fingers increased. He forgot St. George Mivart, and all at once it occurred to him why he had come. “Poor old boy, his punishment is horribly out of proportion to his deserts,” thought the rector, as, in the pause that followed, he caught snatches of the low-toned talk of the women, with Gwen’s name entering largely into it, and saw Mrs. Waring’s face fixed on his own wife with pathetic shy yearning, not veering round to her husband with covert eagerness, as it used to do. Mr. Fellowes caught himself echoing the other husband’s sigh, and he laughed as the absurdity of the situation struck him. “This must be stopped,” he thought, “it grows mawkish. I wonder if they have forgotten to feed—more than likely. Ruth, have you asked Mrs. Waring if she has lunched?” “Indeed I haven’t!” she cried, “I don’t know what I can have been thinking about.” “Oh, please, Mrs. Fellowes,” stammered the little woman, then her eyes turned towards their magnet. Mr. Waring was at her side and with her hand in his, with a speed that made Mrs. Fellowes gasp. “The fact is, Mrs. Fellowes,” he explained heroically, “we were both a little forgetful, we—we—” he paused painfully and gulped. “Ah!——I”— He repented the word sadly, it was the first time his conscience had forced him to separate the two, and it hurt him. “Yes, I was much absorbed in my work—and my wife, I think she is not very well.” “I am quite well, dear,” she murmured. “Ah, dearest, I doubt it. I thought some quinine might be beneficial, Mrs. Fellowes. In fact, that was the primary motive of our call.” “Give her some claret for the present, and make her eat something, wine and meat are as good as quinine any day.” Mrs. Waring was the most docile creature breathing, she swallowed obediently everything set before her, when suddenly a little tremble ran all down her and shook her gently, and she let her fork drop with a little clash.