They put the coats on, and went out, making their way to the broad, grassy walk raised above the shingle of the beach. The tide was far down, and the oozing flats were uncovered. So still, so waveless was the brown water that at this hour it was impossible to perceive where it met the brown land. In the distance, on the right, shone the lights of Herne Bay, with its pier stretching far out into the shallows. Away to the left was the lonely island of Sheppey, a dull shadow beyond the harbor, where the oyster-boats lay at rest. There were very few people about: some fisher-lads solemnly or jocosely escorting their girls, who giggled faintly as they passed Mr. Harding and Malling; two or three shopkeepers from Whitstable taking the air; a boatman or two vaguely hovering, with blue eyes turned from habit to the offing. The two men paced slowly up and down. And again Malling was aware of words trembling upon the rector's lips--words which he could not yet resolve frankly to utter. Whether it was the influence of the faintly sighing sea, of the almost sharply pure air, of the distant lights gleaming patiently, or whether an influence came out from the man beside him and moved him, Malling did not know; but he resolved to do a thing quite contrary to his usual practice. He resolved to try to force a thing on, instead of waiting till it came to him naturally. He became impatient, he who was generally a patient seeker. "You remember our former conversations with regard to Henry Chichester?" he said abruptly, changing the subject of their discourse. "Chichester? Yes--yes. What of him?" "I wish to tell you that I think you are right, that I think there is an extraordinary, even an amazing, change in Chichester." "There is, indeed," said Mr. Harding. "And--and it will increase." He spoke with a sort of despairing conviction. "What makes you think so?" "It must. It cannot be otherwise--unless--" He paused. "Yes," said Malling; "unless--" "A thing almost impossible were to happen." "May I, without indiscretion, ask what that is?" "Unless he were to leave St. Joseph's, to go quite away." "Surely that would not be impossible!" "I often think it is. Chichester will not wish to go." "Are you certain of that?" asked Malling, remembering the curate's remark in Horton Street, that perhaps he would not remain at St. Joseph's much longer. The rector turned his head and fixed his eyes upon Malling. "Has he said anything to you about leaving?" he asked, suddenly raising his voice, as if under the influence of excitement. "But of course he has not." "Surely it is probable that such a man may be offered a living." "He would not take it." They walked on a few steps in silence, turned, and strolled back. It was now growing dark. Their faces were set toward the distant gleam of the Herne Bay lights. "I am not so sure," at length dropped out Malling. "Why are you not so sure?" "Why do you think Chichester's departure from St. Joseph's impossible?"