When Father Algarcife descended the brown-stone steps an hour later, his face was drawn and his lips firmly closed. The electric light, shining upon his resolute features, gave them the look of marble. He turned into Fifth Avenue and continued his way to Fifty-eighth Street. Before the door of the rectory, which was at the distance of a stone's-throw from the church, a carriage was drawn up to the sidewalk, and as he passed his name was called softly in a woman's voice: "It is I--Mrs. Bruce Ryder. I have been waiting in the hope of seeing you." He paused on the sidewalk and his hand closed over the one she gave him. She was a large, fair woman, with a superb head and shoulders, and slow, massive movements, such as the women of the old masters must have had. "It is to force a promise that you will dine with me to-morrow," she said. "You have disappointed me so often--and I must talk with you." Her voice had a caressing inflection akin to the maternal. He smiled into her expectant face. "Yes," he said. "To-morrow--yes; I will do so. That is, if you won't wait for me if I am detained." "That is kind," she responded. "I know you hate it. And I won't wait. I remember that you don't eat oysters." The maternal suggestion in her manner had deepened. She laughed softly, pleased at the knowledge of his trivial tastes her words betrayed. "But I won't keep you," she went on, "Thank you again--and good-bye." The carriage rolled into the street, and he drew out a latch-key and let himself in at the rectory door, which opened on the sidewalk. CHAPTER II Mrs. Bruce Ryder unfolded her napkin and cast a swift glance over the heavy damask, sparkling with glass and silver. "Yes; he is late," she said; "but he doesn't like to be waited for." From the foot of the table Mr. Bruce Ryder smiled complacently, his eye upon his Blue Points. "And his wish is law, even unto the third and fourth courses," he responded, pleasantly. "As far as Mrs. Ryder is concerned, the pulpit of the Church of the Immaculate Conception is a modern Mount Sinai." "Bruce, how can you?" remonstrated his wife, upbraiding him across the pink shades of candles and a centre-piece of orchids. "And you are so ignorant. There is no pulpit in the church." "The metaphor holds. Translate pulpit into altar-step--and you have the Mount Sinai." "Minus Jehovah," commented Claude Nevins, who sat between a tall, slight girl, fresh from boarding-school, and a stout lady with an enormous necklace.