sort of indifference to outside opinion that was almost frightening,
was saying some of the things he knew about men, women--and surely God!

The subject was somewhat akin to that of the first sermon of Mr. Harding
which Malling had heard. The rector then had preached on self-knowledge.
The curate, now, preached on hypocrisy. Incidentally he destroyed his
rector's sermon, flung it away on the scrap-heap, and passed on. This was
not done viciously, but it was done relentlessly. Indeed, that was the
note of the whole sermon. It was relentless, as truth is relentless, as
death is relentless. And besides being terribly true, it was imaginative.
But the preacher almost succeeded in conveying the impression to his
congregation that what is generally called imagination is really vision,
that the true imagination is seeing what is, but is often hidden, knowing
what is, but is often unknown. The latter part of the sermon struck
Malling as very unusual, even as very daring.

The preacher had spoken of the many varieties of hypocrisy. Finally he
drew a picture of a finished hypocrite. And the man lived as a man lives
in the pages of a great writer. One could walk round him, one knew him.
And then Chichester treated him as the writer treats his creation; he
proceeded to show his hypocrite in action.

The man, happy, almost triumphant,--for he now often looked upon himself
with the eyes of others who knew him not,--was walking to his home on a
winter's evening along a country road, passing now and then rustics who
respectfully saluted him, neighbors who grasped his hand, children who
innocently smiled at him, women who whispered that he was a fine fellow,
the clergyman of his parish, who gave him God-speed upon his way as to
one who deserved that God should speed him because his way was right.
Snow was upon the ground. Such light as there was began to fade. It was