Mary saw that the moment was atrocious; but it didn't matter. A curious tranquillity possessed her: she felt something there, close to her, like a person in the room, giving her a sudden security. The moment that was mattering so abominably to her poor, kind friend belonged to a time that was not her time. She heard the tinkle of tea cups outside the hall; then a male voice, male footsteps. Mrs. Smythe-Caulfield made a large encircling movement towards the door. Something interceptive took place there. As they went back down the black-grey drive between the laurel and arbutus Miss Kendal carried her head higher than ever. "That is the first time in my life, Mary, that I've asked a favour." "You did it for me." ("She hated it, but she did it for me.") "Never mind. We aren't going to mind, are we? We'll do without them.... That's right, my dear. Laugh. I'm glad you can. I dare say I shall laugh myself to-morrow." "I don't _want_ to laugh," Mary said. She could have cried when she looked at the grey gloves and the frilled mantle, and the sad, insulted face in the bonnet with the white marabou feather. (And that horrible woman hadn't even given her tea.) The enormous eye of the town clock pursued them to the station. As they settled into their seats in the Reyburn train Miss Kendal said, "It's a pity we couldn't go to the lecture." She leaned back, tired, in her corner. She closed her eyes. Mary opened Walt Whitman's _Leaves of Grass_. The beginning had begun. XXX I. "What are you reading, Mary?" "The New Testament.... Extraordinary how interesting it is." "Interesting!" "Frightfully interesting." "You may say what you like, Mary; you'll change your mind some day. I pray every night that you may come to Christ; and you'll find in the end you'll have to come...." No. No. Still, he said, "The Kingdom of God is within you." If the Greek would bear it--within you. Did they understand their Christ? Had anybody ever understood him? Their "Prince of Peace" who said he hadn't come to send peace, but a sword? The sword of the Self. He said he had come to set a man against his father and the daughter against her mother, and that because of him a man's foes should be those of his own household. "Gentle Jesus, meek and mild." He was not meek and mild. He was only gentle with children and women and sick people. He was brave and proud and impatient and ironic. He wouldn't stay with his father and mother. He liked happy people who could amuse themselves without boring him. He liked to get away from his disciples, and from Lazarus and Martha and Mary of Bethany, and go to the rich, cosmopolitan houses and hear the tax-gatherer's talk and see the young Roman captains swaggering with their swords and making eyes at Mary of Magdala. He was the sublimest rebel that ever lived.