It had been the spring of 1886 when he came to New Zion.  It was now the autumn, and early in September announcements had been made of a series of autumnal lectures to be given by the Rev. Theophilus Londonderry; Rob Clitheroe, Esquire; James Whalley, Esquire; and other distinguished lecturers, at New Zion.

In the list were papers on “The Duty of Novel Reading,” “Henrik Ibsen,” “A Morris Wall-Paper,” “The Nude in Art,” and “The Darwinian Theory,” by Mr. Londonderry himself; “Coalchester, its Past and its Future,” by Mr. Rob Clitheroe; together with “Ireland’s Sacred Right to Home Rule,” by the same lecturer; “Wagner and the New Music,” by Mr. James Whalley, with a paper on “Some Really New Books,” by the same; and a paper-on “Good Taste in Dress,” by Miss Jenny Talbot—­the virago!

The batteries were to be turned on poor Coalchester with a vengeance.  For some time past there had been uneasy suspicions in the town that strange and somewhat ungodly forms of new learning and beauty were being stored as in an arsenal in that little house at 3 Zion Place.  A large cast of the Venus of Milo, it was known, had come from Covent Garden, London, via a poor little dealer in artistic materials in the town, who on one occasion had shown a bewildering picture to one of his customers with the remark, “What do you make of this, Mr. Littlejohn?”

Mr. Littlejohn could make nothing of it, nor indeed could the artists’ colourman, who had been used to pictures all his life.

No wonder, for it was the first Rossetti that had ever been seen in Coalchester.

And it was the same at the little paperhanger’s shop where Theophilus had ordered some pieces of Morris wall-paper for his room.

“Law! what a taste, to be sure!” had exclaimed the paperhanger’s wife as they opened the parcel.  “How any one dare live with such patterns is beyond me.”  The paperhanger’s wife verbed better than she knew.  Few are those indeed who dare live with beauty.

When the paper was hung in Theophil’s room, so great was the sensation in the household that even old Mr. Talbot ventured to look in at it, keeping very close to his wife.  It was so the old man had stood open-mouthed before the first steam-engine, and here again was the Devil plainly at work.

“Lord a-mercy, Jane,” he said to his wife, “what is the world coming to?”

The world was indeed changing beneath the old man’s feet, and the heavens opening as never before in his time—­with, he might be right, some assistance from beneath; and—­it was undoubtedly safer in the kitchen.

Mrs. Talbot in these matters lived and loved by faith in her boy, as she called him.  But even she had her doubts, which she expressed in a way that showed, funny old woman as she was, that she was not without a sort of blind insight.

“I suppose it’s all right, boy,” she said, “and it sounds silly to say about a lot of harmless lines and flowers, but it seems to your old mother that there’s something wrong about that paper,—­something almost wicked in it.  It reminds me of that nasty music you and Jenny are so fond of playing.”