ought to have had his determined scheme plain before him, and a few
sentences, carefully polished, at hand for the beginning and the end. He
could trust himself in the middle, and was perfectly conscious of that.
He frankly liked preaching, liked it not merely as an actor loves to sway
his audience, but liked it because he always knew what to say, and was
really keen that people should see his argument. And yet this morning,
when he should have been prepared for the best he could do, he was not
prepared at all.

Strictly, that is not quite true, for he had a text, and the text
absolutely focused his thought. But it was too big for him. Like some at
least in England that day, he was conscious of staring down a lane of
tragedy that appalled him. Fragments and sentences came and went in his
head. He groped for words, mentally, as he walked. Over and over again
he repeated his text. It amazed him by its simplicity; it horrified him
by its depth.

Hilda was waiting at the pillar-box as she had said she would be, and
little as she could guess it, she irritated him. He did not want her just
then. He could hardly tell why, except that, somehow, she ran counter to
his thoughts altogether that morning. She seemed, even in her excellent
brown costume that fitted her fine figure so well, out of place, and out
of place for the first time.

They were not openly engaged, these two, but there was an understanding
between them, and an understanding that her family was slowly
recognising. Mr. Lessing, at first, would never have accepted an
engagement, for he had other ideas for his daughter of the big house in
Park Lane. The rich city merchant, church-warden at St. John's, important
in his party, and a person of distinction when at his club, would have