After a conversation a man of candid mind will often--and, if the discussion has partaken in any degree of an argumentative character, I would say generally--he left reflecting whether what he has said was even as true as he meant to make it. As I had hinted, I talked to Alison about Jenny with reserves, but even within their limits I doubted whether I had given him the impression I had meant to convey. Perhaps he understood, though he could never acknowledge as legitimate, my view that she would feel entitled to treat herself as a special case. He might even act on this view--always without acknowledging it; surely Churches have been known to do that? He might approach her on that footing--with the hope of changing it. I had meant to point out an impossibility; I fancied I had indicated a task and communicated a stimulus. Had I cast aside the reserves, I should have told him plainly that in my judgment the emotional basis for his appeal was lacking in her. Emotions existed, but not in that direction; that was more what I had wanted to say, but, not feeling at liberty to adduce evidence, I had lost myself in generalities. My poor modicum of truth stopped at the dictum that to Jenny Jenny would seem an exceptional person; I had at least come near to putting it in the hazardous and unorthodox form that everybody might have a right, on sufficient occasion, so to treat himself. And he himself judge of the sufficiency of the occasion? That amounts to anarchy--as Alison, of course, perceived, and, had we pursued the argument, I must have found myself in a very tight place. I was shaking my head over my own controversial incompetence--with, perhaps, a furtive saving plea that it was very hard to tell all one's thoughts to an ecclesiastic--when I was suddenly brought back to more tangible matters; perhaps also to my modicum of truth--that Jenny would seem to Jenny an exceptional person. In short, on turning the next corner, I all but ran into Mr. Nelson Powers. He looked as greasily insinuating as ever. He also appeared to be more prosperous than when I had last seen him. He looked, so to say, established--as if he had a right to be where he was, not so much as if he were "trying it on"--with eyes open for kicks or the police. He was strolling about the streets of Catsford quite with the air of belonging to it. He did not recognize me, or would not. He was almost by me when I stopped him. "Mr. Powers? Surely it is? What brings you to Catsford?" "Mr. Austin? Yes! Well, now, how do you do, sir? I'm glad to meet you again. I was unlucky in missing that dinner--well, never mind! But you've heard? Miss Driver has mentioned my appointment?" "I've heard nothing of any appointment." "Ah, perhaps I'm premature in mentioning it. I'll say good afternoon, Mr. Austin." I seemed to have nothing to say to him. I was rather bewildered; I thought that we had really seen the end of Powers.