"They didn't _call_ it starvation--doctors never do name things right. I think I was about thirteen then. They tried to send me to an institution, but I ran away. I've shifted for myself since." He lapsed into silence, and Judith could get no more out of him that day. He was too obviously busy with his memories. One Sunday morning, about a month or so after the accident, Judith was struck by a whimsical idea. She broached it to her guest immediately. "Mr. Good," she said at breakfast, "I have a favour to ask of you...." "It's granted already," he said gallantly. "Wait--it may not prove so easy. I know you don't care for church-going, but I want you to go with me--this morning." He looked dejected. "I should be delighted--honestly. But look--" He indicated his old brown suit, which in spite of the constant and earnest endeavours of Roger's valet, still looked indisputably shabby. "No matter. We'll go late and sit in the back and nobody will see us. But here's the real favour. There's to be a clergyman out from the city, this morning, who is a friend of mine. Arnold Imrie is to preach, and ..." "Is Arnold coming?" broke in Roger. "By George, I'll go myself. He's a wonder." "That's what I wanted to find out," said Judith. "That is, I want to find out if _you_ think so, Mr. Good. The people here think just that. I want to get your opinion." "That's hardly fair, is it, Miss Wynrod? He's a personal friend of yours, and you know already what I think of church--yet you want my opinion of both." "No--not both; just the man." Good shook his head. "I doubt if they can be separated," he said dubiously. "Well, we'll worry about that later. It's settled that you'll come?" "Of course, but--" "Thank you. I'll be ready in a minute." All the way to the church Good protested that she was taking an unfair advantage of him. But Judith refused to heed his protests. They paused for a moment on the low rise overlooking the church, to survey it. Judith was very fond of its weathered grey stones, almost buried in the luxuriant ivy. She had been christened and confirmed in it, and the stained glass windows at opposite ends of the transept--masterpieces they were, too--were gifts of hers, in memory of her long-dead father and mother. It was an exquisite little edifice, a genuine bit of Tudor, without a particle of "adaptation," looking as if it had been transplanted bodily from some English vale, together with the soil upon which it stood, and the well trimmed trees which surrounded it. She felt a little catch in her throat, as the memories clustered before her. "Pretty, isn't it?" "Yes," said Good slowly. "It's pretty...." She did not like the hesitant qualification implied in his tone. "Is there a reservation?"