‘I never saw such a being before,’ declared Rose--‘never! I thought I should never get a plain answer from him about anything. He wasn’t even quite certain it was a fine day! I wonder if you set fire to him whether he would be sure it hurt! A week, you say? Heigho! what an age!’ ‘Be kind to him,’ said Catherine, discreetly veiling her own feelings, and caressing the curly golden head as they moved toward the door. ‘He’s a poor lone don, and he was so good to Robert!’ ‘Excellent reason for you, Mrs. Elsmere,’ said Rose pouting; ‘but----’ Her further remarks were cut short by the sound of the front-door bell. ‘Oh, I had forgotten Mr. Newcome!’ cried Catherine, starting. ‘Come down soon, Rose, and help us through.’ ‘Who is he?’ inquired Rose, sharply. ‘A High Church clergyman near here, whom Robert asked to tea this afternoon,’ said Catherine, escaping. Rose took her hat off very leisurely. The prospect down-stairs did not seem to justify despatch. She lingered and thought, of ‘Lohengrin’ and Albani, of the crowd of artistic friends that had escorted her to Waterloo, of the way in which she had been applauded the night before, of the joys of playing Brahms with a long-haired pupil of Rubinstein’s, who had dropped on one knee and kissed her hand at the end of it, etc. During the last six weeks the colors of ‘this thread-bare world’ had been freshening before her in marvellous fashion. And now, as she stood looking out, the quiet fields opposite, the sight of a cow pushing its head through the hedge, the infinite sunset sky, the quiet of the house, filled her with a sudden depression. How dull it all seemed--how wanting in the glow of life! CHAPTER XII. Meanwhile downstairs a curious little scene was passing, watched by Langham, who, in his usual anti-social way, had retreated into a corner of his own as soon as another visitor appeared. Beside Catherine sat a Ritualist clergyman in cassock and long cloak--a saint clearly, though perhaps, to judge from the slight restlessness of movement that seemed to quiver through him perpetually, an irritable one. But he had the saint’s wasted unearthly look, the ascetic brow, high and narrow, the veins showing through the skin, and a personality as magnetic as it was strong. Catherine listened to the new-comer, and gave him his tea, with an aloofness of manner which was not lost on Langham. ‘She is the Thirty-nine Articles in the flesh!’ he said to himself. ‘For her there must neither be too much nor too little. How can Elsmere stand it?’