There was the management of her huge house--in itself a task of no mean proportions. There were the board meetings of the various civic, religious and charitable organisations, to which she devoted a very conscientious interest. There were the inescapable appointments with her hairdresser, her manicurist, her masseuse, and the small army of personal attendants who joined their efforts in the conservation and embellishment of her body beautiful. There were the "courses" she must take, the books that must be read, and the plays that must be seen. And finally, as an end or as a cause--she never could determine which--were the luncheons, the receptions, the dinners, the calls, and the balls, which followed one another in never ending course and in never ending monotony. After a few weeks of what was as near to inaction as she ever attained, Judith plunged anew into the rapid course she had swum since childhood. But for the first time in her life, she was consciously dissatisfied. For the first time she knew, and admitted that she knew, that her multifarious activities were not enough. There was something lacking. It was in such a mood that Imrie found her when he came up to see her one evening. For the first time in the years he had known her, there were little lines of discontent and ennui about her mouth. Her usual vivacity, her cheerful wit, seemed to have vanished, and in their place was a seriousness that was almost sullen, a conversational reserve that was almost hostile. But he was not wholly sorry that he found her so. He had come on a mission of business, and he was rather glad that her attitude seemed to preclude anything savouring of the personal. He still felt somewhat sensitive at the recollection of the circumstances of their last meeting. He broached his topic quickly. "I've brought the plans," he said briskly, "and some sketches. They are wonderful, I think. McKee has spent a lot of time on them. It won't be a Westminster, of course, but there will be nothing in this part of the country to compare with it." He spread the prints out before her with a curious mixture of pride and enthusiasm and complacency; pride in this long-cherished darling of his heart, a St. Viateur's which should rival the most splendid temples of the old world; enthusiasm for the co-operation accorded by architects and designers; complacency for the magnitude of his own achievement. He was not aggressively self-satisfied: but he was far from insensible to the fact that he was extraordinarily young to be the rector of as rich and powerful a congregation as that of St. Viateur's. And a chance remark, overheard one day in the University Club, spoken by his bishop to one of his vestrymen, sounded not unreasonably in his ears--"He will go far--young Imrie."