Paul went back with Arnold, and next morning the two friends packed up and parted, Arnold going to Cambridge, Paul to Claxted. The latter was to spend some weeks with his people and was restless over the prospect. He did not say much, however; Arnold was almost incapable of understanding just what Claxted meant. He knew that the Kesterns were "old-fashioned" and "strait-laced"; what he could not know was the sincerity, the earnestness on the one hand, and the fierce fanaticism on the other, of their faith. But Paul knew, or thought so. Perhaps he should have realised even more than he did, but the years of partial separation and the mellow influence of Fordham had dulled his memory to some extent. He had hardly left Claxted station, however, before he got an inkling of what was to be. In Edward Street he ran into Miss Bishop. Now Miss Bishop was Miss Bishop, a unique product of divine providence, but beneath all her angularity and sectarianism ran a kindly current which had hitherto embraced Paul. He therefore smiled at seeing her, shifted a suitcase to his left hand and held out his right. "Why, Miss Bishop," he said, "how do you do?" The woman's lips compressed and her eyes flashed. "You can be as cheerful as that, can you?" she said. "Do you realise the evil you have done? But I suppose you don't. May God open your eyes in time, that is all I have to say. Good-day." And she passed on, without taking his hand. Paul's astonishment and dismay were almost ludicrous. A passing small boy with a street urchin's keen perception, perceived vaguely that he had hit on a lucky incident. His arrested whistle and wide grin recalled Paul to his senses. "Fair cop, mister?" queried the small boy, hopefully. Paul ignored him, caught a glimmer of the humour of the situation, changed his grip on his suitcase again, and passed on. But as he went, he turned her words over in his mind. Increasingly he could see no sense in them.