than socialism.

"I knew you wouldn't," he declared, with all the heartiness he could
throw into his voice. "I repeat, you're a practical, sensible man. I'll
yield to none in my belief in the Church as a moral, uplifting, necessary
spiritual force in our civilization, in my recognition of her high
ideals, but we business men, Mr. Hodder,--as--I am sure you must agree,
--have got to live, I am sorry to say, on a lower plane. We've got to deal
with the world as we find it, and do our little best to help things
along. We can't take the Gospel literally, or we should all be ruined
in a day, and swamp everybody else. You understand me?

"I understand you," said the rector.

Mr. Plimpton's cigar had gone out. In spite of himself, he had slipped
from the easy-going, casual tone into one that was becoming persuasive,
apologetic, strenuous. Although the day was not particularly warm, he
began to perspire a little; and he repeated the words over to himself,
"I understand you." What the deuce did the rector know? He had somehow
the air of knowing everything--more than Mr. Plimpton did. And Mr.
Plimpton was beginning to have the unusual and most disagreeable feeling
of having been weighed in the balance and found wanting. He glanced at
his guest, who sat quite still, the head bent a trifle, the disturbing
gray eyes fixed contemplatively an him--accusingly. And yet the
accusation did not seem personal with the clergyman, whose eyes were
nearly the medium, the channels of a greater, an impersonal Ice. It was
true that the man had changed. He was wholly baffling to Mr. Plimpton,
whose sense of alarm increased momentarily into an almost panicky feeling
as he remembered what Langmaid had said. Was this inscrutable rector of
St. John's gazing, knowingly, at the half owner of Harrods Hotel in