It was indiscreet, it was silly, to turn upon the speaker and affect an air of disengagement and modernity and to say:  “Ah, that indeed is the unfortunate aspect of the whole affair.”

Whereupon the fierce young man had exploded with:  “To that, is it, that you Anglicans have come?”

The whole gathering had given itself up to the disputation, Lady Sunderbund, an actress, a dancer—­though she, it is true, did not say very much—­a novelist, a mechanical expert of some sort, a railway peer, geniuses, hairy and Celtic, people of no clearly definable position, but all quite unequal to the task of maintaining that air of reverent vagueness, that tenderness of touch, which is by all Anglican standards imperative in so deep, so mysterious, and, nowadays, in mixed society at least, so infrequent a discussion.

It was like animals breaking down a fence about some sacred spot.  Within a couple of minutes the affair had become highly improper.  They had raised their voices, they had spoken with the utmost familiarity of almost unspeakable things.  There had been even attempts at epigram.  Athanasian epigrams.  Bent the novelist had doubted if originally there had been a Third Person in the Trinity at all.  He suggested a reaction from a too-Manichaean dualism at some date after the time of St. John’s Gospel.  He maintained obstinately that that Gospel was dualistic.

The unpleasant quality of the talk was far more manifest in the retrospect than it had been at the time.  It had seemed then bold and strange, but not impossible; now in the cold darkness it seemed sacrilegious.  And the bishop’s share, which was indeed only the weak yielding of a tired man to an atmosphere he had misjudged, became a disgraceful display of levity and bad faith.  They had baited him.  Some one had said that nowadays every one was an Arian, knowingly or unknowingly.  They had not concealed their conviction that the bishop did not really believe in the Creeds he uttered.

And that unfortunate first admission stuck terribly in his throat.

Oh!  Why had he made it?

(3)

Sleep had gone.

The awakened sleeper groaned, sat up in the darkness, and felt gropingly in this unaccustomed bed and bedroom first for the edge of the bed and then for the electric light that was possibly on the little bedside table.

The searching hand touched something.  A water-bottle.  The hand resumed its exploration.  Here was something metallic and smooth, a stem.  Either above or below there must be a switch....

The switch was found, grasped, and turned.

The darkness fled.

In a mirror the sleeper saw the reflection of his face and a corner of the bed in which he lay.  The lamp had a tilted shade that threw a slanting bar of shadow across the field of reflection, lighting a right-angled triangle very brightly and leaving the rest obscure.  The bed was a very great one, a bed for the Anakim.  It had a canopy with yellow silk curtains, surmounted by a gilded crown of carved wood.  Between the curtains was a man’s face, clean-shaven, pale, with disordered brown hair and weary, pale-blue eyes.  He was clad in purple pyjamas, and the hand that now ran its fingers through the brown hair was long and lean and shapely.