the church, and leaned gracefully forward with a kind of circular motion.
Having suitably addressed Almighty God (it is to be supposed), he would
lean back, adjust his trousers, possibly place an elbow on the pew-door,
and contemplate with a fixed and determined gaze the distant altar.

Peter, of course, wound in to solemn music with the procession of choir
boys and men, and, accorded the honour of a beadle with a silver mace,
since he was to preach, was finally installed in a suitably cushioned
seat within the altar-rails. He knelt to pray, but it was an effort to
formulate anything. He was intensely conscious that morning that a
meaning hitherto unfelt and unguessed lay behind his world, and even
behind all this pomp and ceremony that he knew so well. Rising, of
course, when the senior curate began to intone the opening sentence in
a manner which one felt was worthy even of St. John's, he allowed himself
to study his surroundings as never before.

The church had, indeed, an air of great beauty in the morning sunlight.
The Renaissance galleries and woodwork, mellowed by time, were dusted
by that soft warm glow, and the somewhat sparse congregation, in its
magnificently isolated groups, was humanised by it too. The stone of the
chancel, flecked with colour, had a quiet dignity, and even the altar,
ecclesiastically ludicrous, had a grace of its own. There was to be a
celebration after Matins. The historic gold plate was therefore arranged
on the retable with something of the effect of show pieces at Mappin and
Webb's. Peter noticed three flagons, and between them two patens of great
size. A smaller pair for use stood on the credence-table. The gold
chalice and paten, veiled, stood on the altar-table itself, and above
them, behind, rose the cross and two vases of hot-house lilies.
Suggesting one of the great shields of beaten gold that King Solomon had
made for the Temple of Jerusalem, an alms-dish stood on edge, and leant