as much as possible, but Mr. Hodder had shown no disposition to spare
their own. He had outraged them, Mr. Ferguson thought,--wantonly so.
He had made these preposterous and unchristian charges an excuse for his
determination to remain in a position where his usefulness had ceased.

No one, unfortunately, was perfect in this life,--not even Mr. Hodder.
He, Francis Ferguson, was far from claiming to be so. But he believed
that this arraignment of the men who stood highest in the city for
decency, law, and order, who supported the Church, who revered its
doctrines, who tried to live Christian lives, who gave their time and
their money freely to it and to charities, that this arraignment was an
arrogant accusation and affront to be repudiated. He demanded that Mr.
Hodder be definite. If he had any charges to make, let him make them
here and now.

The consternation, the horror which succeeded such a stupid and
unexpected tactical blunder on the part of the usually astute
Mr. Ferguson were felt rather than visually discerned. The atmosphere
might have been described as panicky. Asa Waring and Phil Goodrich
smiled as Wallis Plimpton, after a moment's hush, scrambled to his feet,
his face pale, his customary easiness and nonchalance now the result of
an obvious effort. He, too, tried to smile, but swallowed instead as he
remembered his property in Dalton Street . . . . Nelson Langmaid
smiled, in spite of himself. . . Mr. Plimpton implored his
fellow-members not to bring personalities into the debate, and he was
aware all the while of the curious, pitying expression of the rector. He
breathed a sigh of relief at the opening words of Hodder, who followed
him.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I have no intention of being personal, even by