his face and again looked firmly at his friend.

Mr Bethany was now a shrunken old man; he sat perfectly still,
his head craned a little forward, and his veined hands clutching
his bent, spare knees.

There wasn't the least sign of devilry, or out-facingness, or
insolence in that lean shadowy steady head; and yet he himself
was compelled to sidle his glance away, so much the face shook
him. He closed his eyes, too, as a cat does after exchanging too
direct a scrutiny with human eyes. He put out towards, and
withdrew, a groping hand from Mrs Lawford.

'Is it,' came a voice from somewhere, 'is it a great change, sir?
I thought perhaps I may have exaggerated--candle-light, you
know.'

Mr Bethany remained still and silent, striving to entertain one
thought at a time. His lips moved as if he were talking to
himself. And again it was Lawford's faltering voice that broke
the silence. 'You see,' he said, 'I have never... no fit, or
anything of that kind before. I remember on Tuesday... oh yes,
quite well. I did feel seedy, very. And we talked, didn't we?--
Harvest Festival, Mrs Wine's flowers, the new offertory-bags, and
all that. For God's sake, Vicar, it is not as bad as--as they
make out?'

Mr Bethany woke with a start. He leaned forward, and stretched
out a long black wrinkled sleeve, just managing to reach far
enough to tap Lawford's knee. 'Don't worry, don't worry,' he said