On the appointed Sunday, Father Murchison preached to a densely crowded congregation at St. Saviour's. The subject of his sermon was sympathy, and the comparative uselessness of man in the world unless he can learn to love his neighbour as himself. The sermon was rather long, and when the preacher, in his flowing, black cloak, and his hard, round hat, with a straight brim over which hung the ends of a black cord, made his way towards the Professor's house, the hands of the illuminated clock disc at the Marble Arch pointed to twenty minutes past eight. The Father hurried on, pushing his way through the crowd of standing soldiers, chattering women and giggling street boys in their Sunday best. It was a warm April night, and, when he reached number 100, Hyde Park Place, he found the Professor bareheaded on his doorstep, gazing out towards the Park railings, and enjoying the soft, moist air, in front of his lighted passage. "Ha, a long sermon!" he exclaimed. "Come in." "I fear it was," said the Father, obeying the invitation. "I am that dangerous thing--an extempore preacher." "More attractive to speak without notes, if you can do it. Hang your hat and coat--oh, cloak--here. We'll have supper at once. This is the dining-room." He opened a door on the right and they entered a long, narrow room, with a gold paper and a black ceiling, from which hung an electric lamp with a gold-coloured shade. In the room stood a small oval table with covers laid for two. The Professor rang the bell. Then he said, "People seem to talk better at an oval table than at a square one." "Really. Is that so?" "Well, I've had precisely the same party twice, once at a square table, once at an oval table. The first dinner was a dull failure, the second a brilliant success. Sit down, won't you?" "How d'you account for the difference?" said the Father, sitting down, and pulling the tail of his cassock well under him. "H'm. I know how you'd account for it." "Indeed. How then?" "At an oval table, since there are no corners, the chain of human sympathy--the electric current, is much more complete. Eh! Let me give you some soup." "Thank you." The Father took it, and, as he did so, turned his beaming blue eyes on his host. Then he smiled. "What!" he said, in his pleasant, light tenor voice. "You do go to church sometimes, then?" "To-night is the first time for ages. And, mind you, I was tremendously bored." The Father still smiled, and his blue eyes gently twinkled. "Dear, dear!" he said, "what a pity!" "But not by the sermon," Guildea added. "I don't pay a compliment. I state a fact. The sermon didn't bore me. If it had, I should have said so, or said nothing." "And which would you have done?" The Professor smiled almost genially. "Don't know," he said. "What wine d'you drink?" "None, thank you. I'm a teetotaller. In my profession and _milieu_ it is necessary to be one. Yes, I will have some soda water. I think you would have done the first."