permitted to do whatever he tried to insist on doing. Mr. Holland
thought it had something to say to the twirling of his thumbs at a
certain part of the service for the day, but if anyone had said that his
memory was at fault--that the contumacious curate only wanted to make
some gestures at the psychological, or, perhaps, the spiritual, moment,
he would not have been surprised. He had always thought that curate a
very silly person. He thanked his God that he was not such a man, and he
thought that he might trust Phyllis to understand the difference between
the position which he assumed and the posturing of the silly curate.

His knowledge of her powers of discrimination was not at fault. Phyllis
never for a moment thought of him as posturing. She did him more than
justice. She regarded him as terribly in earnest; no man unless one who
was terribly in earnest could have written that book--a book which she
felt was bound to alienate from him all the people who had previously
honored him and delighted to listen to his preaching. Someone had said
in her hearing that the preaching of George Holland was, compared to
the preaching of the average clergyman, as the electric light is to the
gas--the gas of a street lamp. She had flushed with pleasure,--that had
been six months ago,--when it first occurred to her that to be the wife
of a distinguished clergyman, who was also a scholar, was the highest
vocation to which a woman could aspire. She had told her father of this
testimony to the ability of the rector of St. Chad's--pride had been in
her voice and eyes.

"The man who said that was a true critic," her father had remarked.
"Electric light? Quite so. In the absence of sunlight the electric light
does extremely well for the requirements of the average man and woman.
Your critic said nothing about volts?"