'She said that!' Mr Bethany sat back. 'I see, I see,' he said.
'I'm nothing but a fumbling old meddler. And there was I, not ten
minutes ago, preaching for all I was worth on a text I knew
nothing about. God bless me, Lawford, how long we take
a-learning. I'll say no more. But what an illusion. To think
this--this--he laid a long lean hand at arm's length flat upon
the table towards his friend--'to think this is our old jog-trot
Arthur Lawford! From henceforth I throw you over, you old wolf in
sheep's wool. I wash my hands of you. And now where am I going to
sleep?'

He covered up his age and weariness for an instant with a small
crooked hand.

Lawford took a deep breath. 'You're going, old friend, to sleep
at home. And I--I'm going to give you my arm to the Vicarage
gate. Here I am, immeasurably relieved, fitter than I've been
since I was a dolt of a schoolboy. On my word of honour: I can't
say why, but I am. I don't care THAT, vicar, honestly--puffed up
with spiritual pride. If a man can't sleep with pride for a
bed-fellow, well, he'd better try elsewhere. It's no good; I'm as
stubborn as a mule; that's at least a relic of the old Adam. I
care no more,' he raised his voice firmly and gravely--'I don't
care a jot for solitude, not a jot for all the ghosts of all the
catacombs!'

Mr. Bethany listened, grimly pursed up his lips. 'Not a jot for
all the ghosts of all the catechisms!' he muttered. `Nor the
devil himself, I suppose?' He turned once more to glance sharply
in the direction of the face he could so dimly--and of set