"What you have expressed--very finely, if I may say so--is of course the mystical creed," he replied at last, with suave politeness. "But why call it Christianity?" As he spoke, he was conscious of a certain pride in himself. He felt complacently that he understood Meynell and appreciated him; and that hardly any of his colleagues would, or could have done so. "Why call it Christianity?" he repeated. "Because Christianity _is_ this creed!--'embodied in a tale.' And mankind must have tales and symbols." "And the life of Christ is your symbol?" "More!--it is our Sacrament--the supreme Sacrament--to which all other symbols of the same kind lead--in which they are summed up." "And that is _why you_ make so much of the Eucharist?" "It is--to us--just as full of mystical meaning, just as much the meeting-place of God and man, as to the Catholic--Roman or Anglican." "Strange that there should be so many of you!" said Norham, after a moment, with an incredulous smile. "Yes--that has been the discovery of the last six months. But we might all have guessed it. The fuel has been long laid--now comes the kindling, and the blaze!" There was a pause. Then Norham said abruptly-- "Now what is it you want of Parliament?" The two men plunged into a discussion, in which the politician became presently aware that the parish priest, the visionary, possessed a surprising amount of practical and statesman-like ability. * * * * * Meanwhile--a room or two away--in the great bare drawing-room, with its faded tapestries, and its warm mixture of lamplight and firelight, the evening guests had been arriving. Rose stood at the door of the drawing-room, receiving, her husband beside her, Catharine a little way behind. "Oh!" cried Rose suddenly, under her breath, only heard by Hugh--a little sound of perturbation. Outside, in the hall, hardly lit at intervals by oil-lamps, a group could be seen advancing; in front Alice Puttenham and Mary, and behind, the Fox-Wilton party, Hester's golden head and challenging gait drawing all _eyes_ as she passed along. But it was on Alice Puttenham that Rose's gaze was fixed. She came dreamily forward; and Rose saw her marked out, by the lovely oval of the face, its whiteness, its melancholy, from all the moving shapes around her. She wore a dress of black gauze over white; a little scarf of old lace lay on her shoulders; her still abundant hair was rolled back from her high brow and sad eyes. She looked very small and childish--as frail as thistledown. And behind her, Hester's stormy beauty! Rose gave a little gulp. Then she found herself pressing a cold hand, and was conscious of sudden relief. Miss Puttenham's shy composure was unchanged. She could not have looked so--she could not surely have confronted such a gathering of neighbours and strangers, if--