“Mr. Malling,” he said, “perhaps I ought to apologize to you for treating you with the abruptness allowable in a friend, but surprising in an acquaintance, indeed in one who is almost a stranger.  I do apologize.  My only excuse is that I know you to be a man of exceptional trend of mind and unusual ability.  I know this from Professor Stepton.  But there’s another thing.  As I told you yesterday, you are the only person of my acquaintance who, having been fairly intimate with Henry Chichester, has not seen anything of him during the two years he has been with me as my coadjutor.  Now what I want you to do is this:  will you go upstairs and spend a few minutes alone with Chichester?  Tell him I am detained, but am coming in a moment.  I’ll see to it that you are not interrupted.  I’ll explain to my wife.  And, of course, I rely on you to make the matter appear natural to Chichester, not to rouse his—­but I am sure you understand.  Will you do this for me?”

“Certainly,” said Malling, with his most prosaic manner.  “Why not?”

“Why not?  Exactly.  There’s nothing objectionable in the matter.  But—­” Mr. Harding’s manner became very earnest, almost tragic.  “I’ll ask you one thing—­afterward you will tell me the truth, exactly how Chichester impresses you now in comparison with the impression you got of him two years ago.  You—­you have no objection to promising to tell me?”

Malling hesitated.

“But is it quite fair to Chichester?” he said.  “Suppose I obtained, for instance, a less favorable, or even an unfavorable impression of him now?  You are his rector.  I hardly think—­”

The rector interrupted him.

“I’ll leave it to you,” he said.  “Do just as you please.  But, believe me,
I have a very strong reason for wishing to know your opinion.  I need it. 
I need it.”

There was a lamentable sound in his voice.

“If I feel it is right I will give it to you,” said Malling.

The rector opened the door of the study.

“You know your way?”

“Yes.”

Malling went upstairs.  Mr. Harding stood watching him from below till he disappeared.

III

When Malling opened the door of the drawing-room Chichester was standing by one of the windows, looking out into Onslow Gardens.  He turned round, saw Malling, and uttered an exclamation.

“You are here!”

His light tenor voice sounded almost denunciatory, as if he had a right to demand an explanation of Malling’s presence in Mr. Harding’s house, and as he came away quickly from the window, he repeated, with still more emphasis: 

“You are here!”

“Lunching—­yes,” replied Malling, imperturbably.

He looked at Chichester and smiled.

“You have no objection, I hope?”

His words and manner evidently brought the curate to a sense of his own unconventionality.  He held out his hand.