Malling settled down to his cigar with a very definite intention to
clear up his impressions of the rector. The essence of the man baffled
him. He had known more about Lady Sophia in five minutes than he knew
about Mr. Harding now, although he had talked with him, walked with him,
heard him preach, and watched him intently while he was doing so. His
confusion and distress of the morning were comprehended by Malling. They
were undoubtedly caused by the preacher's painful consciousness of the
presence and criticism of one whom, apparently, he feared, or of whose
adverse opinion at any rate he was in peculiar dread. But what was the
character of the man himself? Was he saint or sinner, or just ordinary,
normal man, with a usual allowance of faults and virtues? Was he a man
of real force, or was he painted lath? The Chichester episodes seemed
to point to the latter conclusion. But Malling was too intelligent to
take everything at its surface value. He knew much of the trickery of
man, but that knowledge did not blind him to the mystery of man. He
had exposed charlatans. Yet he had often said to himself, "Who can ever
really expose another? Who can ever really expose himself?" Essentially
he was the Seeker. And he was seldom or never dogmatic. A friend of his,
who professed to believe in transmigration, had once said of him, "I'm
quite certain Malling must have been a sleuth-hound once." Now he wished
to get on a trail.

But Mr. Harding, who on the previous day had been almost strangely frank
about Henry Chichester, to-day had apparently no intention to be frank
about himself. Though he had desired Malling's company, now that they
were together alone he showed a reserve through which, Malling believed,
he secretly wanted to break. But something held him back. He talked of
politics, government and church, the spread of science, the follies of
the day. And Malling got little nearer to him. But presently Malling