"Yes," replied Schuabe, "all this will, I believe, inevitably follow the discovery of the professors in Palestine. And what does Christianity, as it is at present accepted, bring to the Christians? Localise it, and look at the English Church--Canon Walke's Church. At one time every one is a rigid Puritan and decries the bare accessories of worship, at another a Ritualist who twists and turns everything into fantastic shapes, as if he were furnishing an æsthetic bazaar. At another time these people are swayed with the doctrines of 'Christian Science,' and believe that pain is a pure trick of the diseased fancy, and matter the morbid creation of an unhealthy mind. Then we hear priests who tell us that the Old Testament (which in the same breath they announce to be witnessed to by Christ and His Apostles and the unbroken continuity of the Catholic Church) is an enlarged and plagiarised version of the days of a fantastic god discovered on a burnt brick at Babylon. And others sit anxiously waiting to know the precise value which this or that Gospel may possess, as its worth fluctuates like shares in the money market, with the last quotation from Germany! All this will cease." The while these august ones had been speaking, Father Wilson, the domestic chaplain at Fencastle, had remained silent but attentive. He was a lean, dark man, monk-like in appearance, somewhat saturnine on the surface. It was Sir Michael's wish, not the chaplain's, that he should sit with the guests as one of them, and make experience of the great ones of the world. For he had but little interest in worldly things or people. Schuabe's voice died away. Every one was a little exhausted, great matters had been dealt with. There came a little clink and clatter as they sought food. Suddenly Wilson looked up and began to speak. His voice was somewhat harsh and unsympathetic, his manner was uncompromising and without charm. As he spoke every one realised, with a sense of unpleasant shock, that he cared little or nothing for the society he was in.