"The truth is that, mentally, he is quite inferior to the writer of those articles," remarked the short, dark gentleman in a brusque voice. "By the way, I have heard that they were said to be posthumous papers of Professor Huxley's. An error, of course." At that moment the door was opened and Father Algarcife was announced. An instant later he came into the room. He entered slowly, and crossed to Mrs. Ryder's chair, where he made his excuses in a low voice. Then he greeted the rest of the table indifferently. He wore his clerical dress, and the hair upon his forehead was slightly ruffled from the removal of his hat. About the temples there were dashes of gray and a few white hairs showed in his heavy eyebrows, but eyes and mouth blended the firmness of maturity with an expression of boyish vigor. As he was about to seat himself at Mrs. Ryder's right, his eye fell upon Driscoll, and he paled and drew back. Then he spoke stiffly. "So it is you, John?" "I had quite lost sight of you," responded Driscoll. There followed an awkward silence, which was abridged by Mrs. Ryder's pleasant voice. "I like to watch the meeting of old friends," she said; "especially when I believed them strangers. Were you at college together?" "Yes," answered Driscoll, his assurance returning. "At college--well, let me see--not far from twenty years ago. Bless me! I am a middle-aged man. What a discovery!" "You were in the Senior class," observed Father Algarcife, almost mechanically, and with little show of interest. "You were the pride of the faculty, I believe." "I believe I was; and, like pride proverbial, I ended in a fall. Well, there have been many changes." "A great many." "And not the least surprising one is to find you in the fold. You were a lamb astray in my time. Indeed, I remember flattering myself in the fulness of my egoism that I had opened other channels for you. But a reaction came, I suppose." "Yes," said Father Algarcife, slowly, "a reaction came." "And my nourishing of the embryonic sceptic went for naught." "Yes; it went for naught." "Well, I am glad to see you, all the same." "How serious you have become!" broke in Mrs. Ryder. "Don't let's call up old memories. I am sure Mr. Nevins will tell us that those college days weren't so solemn, after all." Nevins, thus called upon, glanced up from his roast, with accustomed disregard of dangerous ground. "I can't answer for Mr. Driscoll," he responded. "His fame preceded mine; but the first time I saw Father Algarcife he had just won a whiskey-punch at poker, and was celebrating." Mrs. Ryder colored faintly in protest, and Driscoll cast an admonishing glance at Nevins, but Father Algarcife laughed good-naturedly, a humorous gleam in his eyes. "So the sins of my youth are rising to confound me," he said. "Well, I make an honest confession. I was good at poker." Nevins disregarded Driscoll's glance with unconcern.