But now the situation was becoming painful, almost unbearable.

With every sentence the rector became more involved, more hesitating,
more impotent. The sweat ran down his face. Even his fine voice was
affected. It grew husky. It seemed to be failing. Yet he would not
cease. To Malling he gave the impression of a man governed by a secret
obstinacy, fighting on though he knew it was no use, that he had lost
the combat. Malling longed to cry out to him, "Give it up!"

The congregation coughed more persistently, and the lady with the fan
began to ply her instrument of torture almost hysterically.

Suddenly Malling felt obliged to look toward the left of the crowded
church. Sitting up very straight, and almost craning his neck, he stared
over the heads of the fidgeting people and met the eyes of a woman, the
lady with the streak of white hair against whom he had pushed when
coming in.

There was a look almost of anguish on her face. She turned her eyes
toward Mr. Harding. At the same instant the rector saw Mailing in the
congregation. He stopped short, muttered an uneven sentence, then,
forcing his voice, uttered in unnaturally loud tones the "Now to God the
Father," et cetera.

Henry Chichester rose in his stall with an expression of intense
thankfulness, which yet seemed somehow combined with a sneer.

The collection was made.

Before the celebration some of the choir and two of the clergy, of whom