When he entered the dining-room of the "House," the others were already at lunch. The Mission party were housed in a typical, tall flat-chested house on the front, of the kind that one finds inevitably along all the shores of Britain, houses of apparently one period, as if the English middle-class had found the sea simultaneously in a generation. That, indeed, did happen. The room itself was threadbare. Everything in it from the furniture to the wall-paper, was thin, and aped solidity. The very linen on the table knew that it was cheap. Only where a scarlet fuchsia flamed in an earthen pot on the window-ledge, was there depth. Mr. and Mrs. Stuart, and the ladies, were not lodged there. The men of the party had it as much to themselves as the admiring followers of Henderson (who had played cricket for his county) and Leather, a Church Missionary Society Islington missionary from India, would allow them. But besides these two, and Dick, and a lad of seventeen whom Henderson tutored, a stranger was at lunch that day. Dick introduced him. "Hullo, Paul," he said, "you're not so late as you might be. Let me introduce you to Mr. Childers." "How do you do?" said Paul correctly, eyeing him. The newcomer rose easily, and held out his hand. He was fair, slight, a little bowed, and perhaps forty. But it was hard to say his age. He took Paul's hand firmly, and met his glance with a curiously remote frankness. "Mr. Childers is a storybook uncle from foreign parts, Paul," said Dick. "Aileen Childers introduced me this morning, and I persuaded him to come in to lunch. He is just back from India." Paul, not in the least understanding why, was suddenly aware that there was hostility in the room, but it did not come from the stranger. He glanced round. Leather, who had finished his cold mutton, had pushed his plate back slightly after his manner, and was looking puzzled and a little annoyed. "To escape the nephews and nieces," said Childers smiling, "and to meet Mr. Leather." "How jolly," said Paul eagerly, taking his seat. "What part of India were you in?" He was always eager to hear of heathen lands. "I've travelled pretty extensively," returned the other, "but recently I've been living in Bombay for some months." "In the native quarter," said Dick, playing with his fork. Something in his tone caught Paul's attention again. He looked more closely at the visitor. "Were you doing missionary work?" he asked. Childers shook his head. "No," he said; "indeed, on the contrary, I went to learn." "The language?" persisted Paul, still at sea. "I learnt that at Cambridge years ago," said Childers. "You don't say so. Did you take Oriental Languages, or whatever they call it?" "No. The fact is, Mr. Kestern, I learnt it from Indian students, and I was out in India studying Indian religious mysticism."