When Malling opened the door of the drawing-room Chichester was standing by one of the windows, looking out into Onslow Gardens. He turned round, saw Malling, and uttered an exclamation. "You are here!" His light tenor voice sounded almost denunciatory, as if he had a right to demand an explanation of Malling's presence in Mr. Harding's house, and as he came away quickly from the window, he repeated, with still more emphasis: "You are here!" "Lunching--yes," replied Malling, imperturbably. He looked at Chichester and smiled. "You have no objection, I hope?" His words and manner evidently brought the curate to a sense of his own unconventionality. He held out his hand. "I beg your pardon. Your coming in surprised me. I had no idea"--his blue eyes went searchingly over Malling's calm face--"that you could be here. I thought you and the rector were complete strangers till I introduced you yesterday." "So we were." Malling sat down comfortably on a sofa. His action evidently recalled Chichester's mind to the fact that he was to see the rector. "Isn't the rector coming to see me?" he asked. "Almost directly. He's busy for a few minutes. We were smoking together in his study." "You seem to--you seem to have made great friends!" said Chichester, with a sort of forced jocularity. "Great friends! They're hardly made in a moment. I happened to be at church this morning--" "At church--where?" exclaimed the curate. "At St. Joseph's. And Mr. Harding kindly asked me to lunch." "You were at church at St. Joseph's this morning?" said Chichester. He sat down by Malling and stared into his face. "Did you--did you stay for the sermon?" "Certainly. I came for the sermon. I had never heard Mr. Harding preach." "No? No? Well, what did you think of it? What did you think of it?" The curate spoke nervously, and seemed to Malling to be regarding him with furtive anxiety. "It was obvious that Mr. Harding wasn't in good form this morning," Malling said. "He explained the matter after lunch." "He _explained_ the matter!" said Chichester, with a rising voice, in which there was an almost shrill note of suspicion. "Yes. He told me he was often the victim of nervous dyspepsia, and that he had an attack of it while in the pulpit this morning." "He told you it was nervous dyspepsia!" "I have just said so." The curate looked down. "I advised him not to walk all the way home yesterday," he said gloomily. "You heard me." "You think it was that?" "He never will take advice from any one. That's his--one of his great faults. Whatever he thinks, whatever he says, must be right. You, as a layman, probably have no idea how a certain type of clergyman loves authority." This remark struck Malling as in such singularly bad taste--considering where they were, and that one of them was Mr. Harding's guest, the other his curate--that only his secret desire to make obscure things clear prevented him from resenting it.