The shadow cast by the great apse of the cathedral slanted over the end of the Deanery garden, leaving the house in the blaze of the afternoon sun, and divided the old red-brick wall into a vivid contrast of tones. The peace of centuries brooded over the place. No outside convulsions could ever cause a flutter of her calm wings. As it was thirty years ago, when the Dean first came to Durdlebury, as it was three hundred, six hundred years ago, so it was now; and so it would be hundreds of years hence as long as that majestic pile housing the Spirit of God should last. Thus thought, thus, in some such words, proclaimed the Dean, sitting in the shade, with his hands clasped behind his head. Tea was over. Mrs. Conover, thin and faded, still sat by the little table, wondering whether she might now blow out the lamp beneath the silver kettle. Sir Archibald Bruce, a neighbouring landowner, and his wife had come, bringing their daughter Dorothy to play tennis. The game had already started on the court some little distance off--the players being Dorothy, Peggy and a couple of athletic, flannel-clad parsons. Marmaduke Trevor reposed on a chair under the lee of Lady Bruce. He looked very cool and spick and span in a grey cashmere suit, grey shirt, socks and tie, and grey _suede_ shoes. He had a weak, good-looking little face and a little black moustache turned up at the ends. He was discoursing to his neighbour on Palestrina. The Dean's proclamation had been elicited by some remark of Sir Archibald. "I wonder how you have stuck it for so long," said the latter. He had been a soldier in his youth and an explorer, and had shot big game. "I haven't your genius, my dear Bruce, for making myself uncomfortable," replied the Dean. "You were energetic enough when you first came here," said Sir Archibald. "We all thought you a desperate fellow who was going to rebuild the cathedral, turn the Close into industrial dwellings, and generally play the deuce." The Dean sighed pleasantly. He had snowy hair and a genial, florid, clean-shaven face. "I was appointed very young--six-and-thirty--and I thought I could fight against the centuries. As the years went on I found I couldn't. The grey changelessness of things got hold of me, incorporated me into them. When I die--for I hope I shan't have to resign through doddering senility--my body will be buried there"--he jerked his head slightly towards the cathedral--"and my dust will become part and parcel of the fabric--like that of many of my predecessors." "That's all very well," said Sir Archibald, "but they ought to have caught you before this petrification set in, and made you a bishop." It was somewhat of an old argument, for the two were intimates. The Dean smiled and shook his head. "You know I declined----" "After you had become petrified." "Perhaps so. It is not a place where ambitions can attain a riotous growth."