Walking slowly—­for he felt played out, pretty thoroughly done for, as he put it, and beat—­back to the vicarage and his belated Sunday dinner:—­

“And of such are the Kingdom of Heaven,” James Horniblow said to himself—­perhaps truly.

He also said other things, distinctly other things, in which occurred the name of Reginald Sawyer whose days as curate of Deadham were numbered.  If he did not resign voluntarily, well then, pressure must, very certainly, be employed to make him resign.

Meanwhile that blue-coated, virginal member of the Kingdom of Heaven sped homeward at the top of her speed.  She was conscious of immense upheaval.  Never had she felt so alive, so on the spot.  The portals of highest drama swung wide before her.  She hastened to enter and pour forth the abounding treasures of her sympathy at the feet of the actors in this most marvellous piece.  That her own part in it must be insignificant, probably not even a speaking one, troubled her not the least.  She was out for them, not for herself.  It was, also, characteristic of Miss Felicia that she felt in nowise shocked.  Not the ethical, still less the social aspects of the drama affected her, but only its human ones.  These dear people had suffered, and she hadn’t known it.  They suffered still.  She enclosed them in arms of compassion.—­If to the pure all things are pure, Felicia Verity’s purity at this juncture radiantly stood the test.  And that, not through puritanical shutting of the eyes or juggling with fact.  As she declared to Canon Horniblow, she accepted the incident without question or cavil—­for her brother.  For herself, any possibility of stepping off the narrow path of virtue, and exploring the alluring, fragrant thickets disposed to left of it and to right, had never, ever so distantly, occurred to her.

She arrived at The Hard with a bright colour and beating heart.  Crossed the hall and waited at the drawing-room door.  A man’s voice was audible within, low-toned and grave, but very pleasant.  It reminded her curiously of Charles—­Charles long ago on leave from India, lightening the heavy conventionalities of Canton Magna with his brilliant, enigmatic, and—­to her—­all too fugitive presence.  Harriet had never really appreciated Charles—­though she was dazzled by his fame at intervals—­didn’t really appreciate him to this day.  Well, the loss was hers and the gain indubitably Felicia’s, since the elder sister’s obtuseness had left the younger sister a free field.—­At thought of which Felicia softly laughed.

Again she listened to the man’s voice—­her brother Charles’s delightful young voice.  It brought back the glamour of her girlhood, of other voices which had mingled with his, of dances, picnics, cricket matches, days with the hounds.  She felt strangely moved, transported; also strangely shy—­so that she debated retirement.  Did not, of course, retire, but went into the drawing-room with a gentle rush, a dart between the stumpy pillars.