escaped him, but he seemed to see with his brain as though he had learnt
the trick of forcing it to some new function that did not properly belong
to it. The broad white forehead under the soft black clerical hat was
smooth, unwrinkled, mild and calm.... He had trained it to be so.

The High Street was like any High Street of a small Cathedral town in the
early evening. The pavements were sleek and shiny after the rain; people
were walking with the air of being unusually pleased with the world,
always the human expression when the storms have withdrawn and there is
peace and colour in the sky. There were lights behind the solemn panes of
Bennett's the bookseller's, that fine shop whose first master had seen Sir
Walter Scott in London and spoken to Byron. In his window were rows of the
classics in calf and first editions of the Surtees books and _Dr.
Syntax_. At the very top of the High Street was Mellock's the pastry-
cook's, gay with its gas, rich with its famous saffron buns, its still
more famous ginger-bread cake, and, most famous of all, its lemon
biscuits. Even as the Ronders' cab paused for a moment before it turned to
pass under the dark Arden Gate on to the asphalt of the Precincts, the
great Mrs. Mellock herself, round and rubicund, came to the door and
looked about her at the weather. An errand-boy passed, whistling, down the
hill, a stiff military-looking gentleman with white moustaches mounted
majestically the steps of the Conservative Club; then they rattled under
the black archway, echoed for a moment on the noisy cobbles, then slipped
into the quiet solemnity of the Precincts asphalt. It was Brandon who had
insisted on the asphalt. Old residents had complained that to take away
the cobbles would be to rid the Precincts of all its atmosphere.

"I don't care about atmosphere," said the Archdeacon, "I want to sleep at
night."