"Mrs. Brandon and Morris! Good Lord! Have you ever heard of a man called Davray?" "Yes, a drunken painter, isn't he? Why?" "I talked to him in the Cathedral this afternoon. He has a grudge against Brandon too...Well, I'm going up to the study." He bent over, kissed her forehead tenderly and left the room. Throughout that evening he was uncomfortable, and when he was uncomfortable he was a strange being. His impulses, his motives, his intentions were like a sheaf of corn bound tightly about by his sense of comfort and well-being. When that sense was disturbed everything fell apart and he seemed to be facing a new world full of elements that he always denied. His aunt had a greater power of disturbing him than had any other human being. He knew that she spoke what she believed to be the truth; he felt that, in spite of her denials, she knew him. He was often surprised at the eagerness with which he wanted her approval. As he sat back in his chair that evening in Bentinck-Major's comfortable library and watched the other, this sense of discomfort persisted so strongly that he found it very difficult to let his mind bite into the discussion. And yet this meeting was immensely important to him. It was the first obvious result of the manoeuvring of the last months. This was definitely a meeting of Conspirators, and all of those engaged in it, with one exception, knew that that was so. Bentinck-Major knew it, and Foster and Ryle and Rogers. The exception was Martin, a young Minor Canon, who had the living of St. Joseph's-in-the-Fields, a slum parish in the lower part of the town. Martin had been invited because he was the best clergyman in Polchester. Young though he was, every one was already aware of his strength, integrity, power with the men of the town, sense of humour and intelligence. There was, perhaps, no man in the whole of Polchester whom Ronder was so anxious to have on his side. He was a man with a scorn of any intrigue, deeply religious, but human and impatient of humbug. Ronder knew that he was the Polchester clergyman beyond all others who would in later years come to great power, although at present he had nothing save his Minor Canonry and small living. He was not perhaps a deeply read man, he was of no especial family nor school and had graduated at Durham University. In appearance he was common-place, thin, tall, with light sandy hair and mild good-tempered eyes. It had been Ronder's intention that he should be invited. Foster, who was more responsible for the meeting than any one, had protested. "Martin--what's the point of Martin?" "You'll see in five years' time," Ronder had answered. Now, as Ronder looked round at them all, he moved restlessly in his chair.