“I understand too well--the attempt to get hold--and keep hold.” “I knew you would!” she cried. She went on with an impulsive rapidity. O'thodoxy had always 'ipelled her,--always. She had felt herself confronted by the most insurmountable difficulties, and yet whenever she had gone away from Christianity--she had gone away from Christianity, to the Theosophists and the Christian Scientists--she had felt she was only “st'aying fu'tha.” And then suddenly when he was speaking last night, she had felt he knew. It was so wonderful to hear the “k'eed was only a symbol.” “Symbol is the proper name for it,” said the bishop. “It wasn't for centuries it was called the Creed.” Yes, and so what it really meant was something quite different from what it did mean. The bishop felt that this sentence also was only a symbol, and nodded encouragingly--but gravely, warily. And there she was, and the point was there were thousands and thousands and thousands of educated people like her who were dying to get through these old-fashioned symbols to the true faith that lay behind them. That they knew lay behind them. She didn't know if he had read “The Light under the Altar”? “He's vicar of Wombash--in my diocese,” said the bishop with restraint. “It's wonde'ful stuff,” said Lady Sunderbund. “It's spi'tually cold, but it's intellectually wonde'ful. But we want that with spi'tuality. We want it so badly. If some one--” She became daring. She bit her under lip and flashed her spirit at him. “If you--” she said and paused. “Could think aloud,” said the bishop. “Yes,” she said, nodding rapidly, and became breathless to hear. It would certainly be an astonishing end to the Chasters difficulty if the bishop went over to the heretic, the bishop reflected. “My dear lady, I won't disguise,” he began; “in fact I don't see how I could, that for some years I have been growing more and more discontented with some of our most fundamental formulae. But it's been very largely a shapeless discontent--hitherto. I don't think I've said a word to a single soul. No, not a word. You are the first person to whom I've ever made the admission that even my feelings are at times unorthodox.” She lit up marvellously at his words. “Go on,” she whispered. But she did not need to tell him to go on. Now that he had once broached the casket of his reserves he was only too glad of a listener. He talked as if they were intimate and loving friends, and so it seemed to both of them they were. It was a wonderful release from a long and painful solitude.