The bell of St. Saviour's had ceased. Over the open market-place the air
throbbed with a thousand pulses from the dying heart of sound. The great
grey body of the Church was still; tower and couchant nave watched in
their monstrous, motionless dominion, till the music stirred in them like
a triumphant soul.

As they hurried over the open market-place, Anne realised with some
annoyance that she was late again for the Wednesday evening service. She
dearly loved punctuality and order, and disliked to be either checked or
hastened in her superb movements. She disliked to be late for anything.
Above all she disliked standing on a mat outside a closed church door, in
the middle of a General Confession, trying to surrender her spirit to the
spirit of prayer, while Walter lingered, murmuring profane urbanities
that claimed her as his own.

He had perceived what he called her innocent design, her transparent
effort to lead him to her heavenly heights. He had lent himself to
it, tenderly, gravely, as he would have lent himself to a child's
heart-rending play. He could not profess to follow the workings of his
wife's mind, but he did understand her point of view. She had been "let
in" for something she had not expected, and he was bound to make it up
to her.

There had been a week of concessions, crowned by his appearance at St.
Saviour's.

But that was on a Sunday. This was Wednesday, and he drew the line at
Wednesdays.