"Dr. Benson was saying to papa only last week," she answered, "that there is no apparent recognition of the Divine presence in our daily affairs. It is most shocking." "The clergy are doing their level best, by bigotry, to make Benson's assertion true. At any rate, I am not going about, as the French put it, with my paws in the air. I feel strongly tempted to throw up my present line, and give the whole Association to the best qualified hypocrite of my acquaintance." "The sure way out of that temptation is not to think yourself exposed to it," said Robert quickly. "I hate sophistries," said Agnes, tightening her lips. "And I hope, Beauclerk, that you will never remain in any painful situation against your will." These words seemed to bear an ominous significance. Agnes herself, having uttered them, received one of those sudden inward illuminations which, in some natures, amount to second-sight. But she was unimaginative and not especially observant, sensitive, or skilled in discerning the signs of any psychological disturbance. She felt only, on this occasion, that a crisis had been reached, that Reckage was vexed with himself, with her, with life generally. She had a letter in her pocket from David Rennes--a beautiful, touching letter, full of longing for a faith, a hope--love, he said, he possessed, alas! What a difference in the two men! "You don't understand," said Sara. "You are right because you haven't heard enough. Mr. Orange is going to give a lecture on Church History, and Lord Reckage has promised to be chairman. They will hold the meeting at St. James's Hall, and I am sure it will be most interesting. More I cannot tell you, because they have gone no further in their plans." But misfortune had entered the room, and that wayfarer--once admitted--asserts her ill-will without let or hindrance. Agnes, barely touching her tea, rose to say goodbye. Lord Garrow and Reckage escorted her to the hall. They helped her into a carriage (lent her for that afternoon by the Duchess of Pevensey), and she drove away, trembling, tearful, afraid, not reminding her _fiancé_ that they were to meet at dinner in the evening. He walked homeward, but not until he had decided, after much hesitation, that he could scarcely go back again to Lady Sara. His thoughts were fixed now to one refrain--"I must have my freedom." Freedom, at that moment, had a mocking, lovely face, the darkest blue eyes, and quantities of long, black hair. She wore a violet dress, her hands were white, and she talked like a Blue Book set to music by Beethoven. Yes, he must have his freedom and live. Sara and Orange, meanwhile, left alone in the drawing-room, were exchanging interrogatory glances, "What do you think now?" she asked; "do you pretend to believe that Agnes and Beauclerk can make each other even moderately contented?" "Then you are to blame." A flush swept over her face. She looked bitter reproaches, but she made no answer.