"What are 'strange doctrines' nowadays?" said a mild, falsetto voice in the distance. Barron turned to the speaker--the long-haired dishevelled person whose name he had not caught distinctly as Mrs. Flaxman introduced him. His manner unconsciously assumed a note of patronage. "No need to define them, I think--for a Christian. The Church has her Creeds." "Of course. But while this gentleman shelves them--no doubt a revolutionary proceeding--are there not excesses on the other side? May there not be too much--as well as too little?" And with an astonishing command of ecclesiastical detail Manvers gave an account--gently ironic here and there--of some neo-Catholic functions of which he had lately been a witness. Barron fidgeted. "Deplorable, I admit--quite deplorable! I would put that kind of thing down, just as firmly as the other." Manvers smiled. "But who are '_you_'? if I may ask it philosophically and without offence? The man here does not agree with you--the people I have been describing would scout you. Where's your authority? What _is_ the authority in the English Church?" "Well, of course we have our answer to that question," said Barron, after a moment. Manvers gave a pleasant little laugh. "Have you?" Barron hesitated again, then evidently found the controversial temptation too strong. He plunged headlong into a great gulf of cloudy argument, with the big word "authority" for theme. But he could find no foothold in the maze. Manvers drove him delicately from point to point, involving him in his own contradictions, rolling him in his own ambiguities, till--suddenly--vague recollections began to stir in the victim's mind. _Manvers_? Was that the name? It began to recall to him certain articles in the reviews, the Church papers. Was there not a well-known writer--a Dublin man--a man who had once been a clergyman, and had resigned his orders? He drew himself together with dignity, and retreated in as good order as he could. Turning to Mrs. Flaxman, who was endeavouring to make a few commonplaces audible to Miss Barron, while throwing occasional sly glances toward the field of battle, he somewhat curtly asked for his carriage. Mrs. Flaxman's hand was on the bell, when the drawing-room door opened to admit a gentleman. "Mr. Meynell!" said the butler. And at the same moment a young girl slipped in through the open French window, and with a smiling nod to Mrs. Flaxman and Mr. Manvers went up to the tea-table and began to replenish the teapot and relight the kettle. Mr. Barron made an involuntary movement of annoyance as the Rector entered. But a few minutes of waiting before the appearance of his carriage was inevitable. He stood motionless therefore in his place, a handsome, impressive figure, while Meynell paid his respects to Mrs. Flaxman, whose quick colour betrayed a moment's nervousness. "How are you, Barron?" said the Rector from a distance with a friendly nod. Then, as he turned to Manvers, his face lit up.