The cloud seemed to creep like smoke from the funnel of the Cathedral tower. The sun was setting in a fiery wreath of bubbling haze, shading in rosy mist the mountains of grey stone. The little cloud, at first in the shadowy air light green and shaped like a ring, twisted spirally, then, spreading, washed out and lay like a pool of water against the smoking sunset. Green like the Black Bishop's ring.... Lying there, afterwards, until the orange had faded and the sky, deserted by the sun, was milk-white. The mists descended. The Cathedral chimes struck five. February night, cold, smoke-misted, enwrapped the town. * * * * * At a quarter to five Evensong was over and Cobbett was putting out the candles in the choir. Two figures slowly passed down the darkening nave. Outside the west door they paused, gazing at the splendour of the fiery sky. "It's cold, but there'll be stars," Ronder said. Stars. Cold. Brandon shivered. Something was wrong with him. His heart had clap-clapped during the Anthem as though a cart with heavy wheels had rumbled there. He looked suspiciously at Ronder. He did not like the man, confidently standing there addressing the sky as though he owned it. He would have liked the sunset for himself. "Well, good-night, Canon," brusquely. He moved away. But Ronder followed him. "One moment, Archdeacon.... Excuse me.... I have been wanting an opportunity...." Brandon paused. The man was nervous. Brandon liked that. "Yes?" he said. The rosy light was fading. Strange that little green cloud rising like smoke from the tower.... "At the last Chapter we were on opposite sides. I want to say how greatly I've regretted that. I feel that we don't know one another as we should. I wonder if you would allow me..." The light was fading--Ronder's spectacles shone, his body in shadow. "...to see something more of you--to have a real talk with you?" Brandon smiled grimly to himself in the dusk. This fool! He was afraid then. He saw himself hatless in Bennett's shop; outside, the jeering crowd. "I'm afraid, Canon Ronder, that we shall never see eye to eye here about many things. If you will allow me to say so, you have perhaps not been here quite long enough to understand the real needs of this diocese. You must go slowly here--more slowly than perhaps you are prepared for. We are not Modernists here." The spectacles, alone visible, answered: "Well, let us discuss it then. Let us talk things over. Let me ask you at once, Have you something against me, something that I have done unwittingly? I have fancied lately a personal note.... I am absurdly sensitive, but if there _is_ anything that I have done, please let me apologise for it. I want you to tell me." Anything that he had done? The Archdeacon smiled grimly to himself in the dusk. "I really don't think, Canon, that talking things over will help us. There is really nothing to discuss.... Good-night."