Or again, though this he tried to suppress, the gorge of the poet in him would rise now against Moody and Sankey or Torrey and Alexander. Metre and rhyme had come to be things that he could not help subconsciously analysing, but it does not do to analyse mission hymn-books. Nor can one make a really successful evangelist if one is affected almost to desperation by a cornet out of tune, or tracts for distribution that are neither English nor common sense. Lastly, the home atmosphere was electric with disagreement. He was out of tune with it all. There seemed no longer anything to talk about at table. Mr. Kestern was not interested in literature and art; with his politics Paul, feeling after Socialism, was in violent collision; the parish was no longer his world; and even into talk of the Second Coming of Christ would creep the voice of criticism, or into the Islington Conference the question of Rome. It was, of course, a common-place tragedy, but that did not make it the less tragic. The man had stood still, and the boy had gone on. Also, at the fork roads, he had taken the unfamiliar turn. Full of it all, then, he was coming to stay with Father Vassall. He had determined to do that this once at least. He must talk things out with his friend. But should they come to a conclusion, and if so to what conclusion and with what results, that was the question. "That's the 'ouse, sir." Paul peered eagerly ahead. He could make out a dark, vague outline, and a wall on the left. "Wo-up, beauty," cried his driver to the horse. They came to a standstill before a big iron gate between tall red-brick gate-posts. Paul climbed stiffly down, and swung his bag out. He found himself on a flagged path that ran up to a door set in a shallow portico in the front of a long, low, mellow Queen Anne house. It was not too dark to see a solid cornice and parapet. "The bell's on the right, sir," said the voice at the gate. "I'll drive on round to the stable." Paul pulled the wrought-iron bell-pull, and somewhere in the black recesses a bell jangled. He heard a door open and the sound of feet. "All right, Bridget," called a familiar voice; "I'll let him in." A door opened somewhere. A faint glimmer of moving light shone through the glass panes and drew nearer. The front door swung open. Paul blinked in the light. The priest stood with a lantern in his left hand. He wore his cassock, and was muffled in a cloak, with a black skull-cap on his head. His merry smiling face was turned up to Paul, clean shaven, youthful looking, the hair a little tumbled. "Good evening, Father," said Paul. "Sorry I'm late. I've been longing to get here." "H-how are you?" exploded the priest. "C-come in. It's splendid, your c-coming."