The black frock coat which he wore on Sundays was too small for him.  If he buttoned it, it wrinkled round the waist and across the chest; if he left it open, its meagre width and the shortness of the skirts (they were the fashion of more than ten years ago) made it seem ridiculous.  At the elbows the cloth was shiny with long wear, and the cuffs were frayed.  His hat was as antiquated as his coat.  It was a mere pulp, greasy inside and brown outside; the brim was too small, it was too low in the crown, and after the severest brushing it remained rough like a blanket.  Evelyn handed it back to him in despair.  He thanked his daughter, put it on his head, and forgot its appearance.  But in spite of shabby coat and shabbier hat, Mr. Innes remained free from suspicion of vulgarity—­the sad dignity of his grey face and the dreams that haunted his eyes saved him from that.

“And whose mass are you going to play to-day?” she asked him.

“A mass by Hummel, in B; on Thursday, a mass by Dr. Gladstone; and next Sunday, Mozart’s Twelfth, beloved of Father Gordon and village choirs.  I wonder if he will allow the Reproaches to be sung in Holy Week?  He will insist on the expense of the double choir.”

“But, father, do you think that the congregation of St. Joseph’s is one that would care for the refinement of Palestrina?  Would you not require a cultivated West-end audience—­the Oratory or Farm Street?”

“That is Sir Owen’s opinion.”

“I never heard him say so.”

How had she come to repeat anything she had heard him say?  Moreover, why had she said that she had not heard him say so?  And Evelyn argued with herself until the train reached their station—­it was one of those absurd little mental complications, the infinitesimal life that flourishes deep in the soul.

A little way down a side street, a few yards from the main thoroughfare, where the roads branched, the great gaunt facade of St. Joseph’s pointed against a yellow sky.  Its foundations had been laid and its walls built by a priest, who had collected large sums of money in America, and whose desire had been to have the largest church that could be built for the least money, in the shortest possible time.  The result was the great, sprawling, grey stone building with a desolate spire, now fading into the darkness of the snow-storm.  Money had run short.  The church had not been completed when its founder died; then another energetic priest had raised another subscription.  Doors and stained glass had been added, and, for a while, St. Joseph’s had become a flourishing parish church, supported by various suburbs, and projects for the completion of its interior decoration had begun to be entertained; but while these projects were under consideration, the suburbs had acquired churches of their own, and the congregation of St. Joseph’s had dwindled until it had lost all means of support, except the meagre assistance it received