There was an expression of profound sadness on his face, which seemed to dignify it, to make it more powerful, more manly, than it had been.  The choir-boy look was gone.  Malling of course knew how very much expression can change a human being; nevertheless, he was startled by the alteration in the curate’s outward man.  It seemed, to use the rector’s phrase, that he had “shed his character.”  And now, perhaps, the new character, mysteriously using matter as the vehicle of its manifestation, was beginning to appear to the eyes of men.  He showed no surprise at the sight of Malling, but rather a faint, though definite, pleasure.  The way in which Lady Sophia greeted him was a revelation to Malling, and a curious exhibition of feminine psychology.

She looked up at him from the low chair in which she was sitting, gave him her left hand, and said, “Are you very tired?” That was all.  Yet it would have been impossible to express more clearly a woman’s mental, not affectional, subjugation by a man, her instinctive yielding to power, her respect for authority, her recognition that the master of her master had come into the room.

Her “Vive le roi!” was said.

Chichester accepted Lady Sophia’s subtle homage with an air of unconsciousness.  His interior melancholy seemed to lift him above the small things that flatter small men.  He acknowledged that he was tired, and would be glad of tea.  He had been down in the East End.  The rector had asked him to talk over something with Mr. Carlile of the Church Army.

“You mean that you suggested to the rector that it would be wise to see Mr. Carlile,” said Lady Sophia.

“Is the rector coming in to tea?” asked Chichester.

“Possibly he may,” she replied.  “He knew Mr. Malling was to be here.  Did you tell him you were coming?”

“No.  I was not certain I should get away in time.”

“I think he will probably turn up.”

A footman brought in tea at this moment, and Malling told the curate he had heard him preach in the evening of last Sunday.

“It was a deeply interesting sermon,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Chichester, very impersonally.

The footman went away, and Lady Sophia began to make tea.

“When I went home,” Malling continued, “I sat up till late thinking it over.  Part of it suggested to my mind one or two rather curious speculations.”

“Which part?” asked Lady Sophia, dipping a spoon into a silver tea-caddy.

“The part about the man and his double.”

She shivered, and some of the tea with which she had just filled the spoon was shaken out of it.

“That was terrible,” she said.

“What were your speculations?” said Chichester, showing a sudden and definite waking up of keen interest.

“One of them was this—­”