"Oh! but you don't understand," said his companion, eagerly. "Of course Ritualistic is the wrong word. Should I have said 'sacramental'? I only meant that it was full of symbolism. There were lights--and flowers, and music, but there was nothing priestly--or superstitious"--she frowned in her effort to explain. "It was all poetic--and mystical--and yet practical. There were a good many things changed in the Service,--but I hardly noticed--I was so absorbed in watching the people. Almost every one stayed for the second service. It was quite short--so was the first service. And a great many communicated. But the spirit of it was the wonderful thing. It had all that--that magic--that mystery--that one gets out of Catholicism, even simple Catholicism, in a village church--say at Benediction; and yet one had a sense of having come out into fresh air; of saying things that were true--true at least to you, and to the people that were saying them; things that you did believe, or could believe, instead of things that you only pretended to believe, or couldn't possibly believe! I haven't got over it yet, and as for Hugh, I have never seen him so moved since--since Robert died." Manvers was aware of Mrs. Flaxman's affection for her brother-in-law's memory; and it seemed to him natural and womanly that she should be touched--artist and wordling though she was--by this fresh effort in a similar direction. For himself, he was touched in another way: with pity, or a kindly scorn. He did not believe in patching up the Christian tradition. Either accept it--or put it aside. Newman had disposed of "neo-Christianity" once for all. "Well, of course all this means a row," he said at length, with a smile. "What is the Bishop doing?" "Oh, the Bishop will have to prosecute, Hugh says; of course he must! And if he didn't, Mr. Barron would do it for him." "The gentleman who lives in the White House?" "Precisely. Ah!" cried Mrs. Flaxman, suddenly, rising to her feet and looking through the open window beside her. "What do you think we've done? We have evoked him! _Parlez du diable_, etc. How stupid of us! But there's his carriage trotting up the drive--I know the horses. And that's his deaf daughter--poor, downtrodden thing!--sitting beside him. Now then--shall we be at home? Quick!" Mrs. Flaxman flew to the bell, but retreated with a little grimace. "We must! It's inevitable. But Hugh says I can't be rude to new people. Why can't I? It's so simple." She sat down, however, though rebellion and a little malice quickened the colour in her fair skin. Manvers looked longingly at the door leading to the garden. "Shall I disappear?--or must I support you?" "It all depends on what value you set on my good opinion," said Mrs. Flaxman, laughing. Manvers resettled himself in his chair. "I stay--but first, a little information. The gentleman owns land here?"