“That is the hotel where the professor must be staying, if he is here.”

“I’ll go over presently and ask about him.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Harding.  “Bring in the bag, please, Jennings.  The room on the right, at the top of the stairs.”

Malling had believed in London that Mr. Harding’s telegram to him was a cry out of darkness.  That first evening in the cheerful doll’s house he knew his belief was well founded.  When they sat at dinner, like two monsters, Malling thought, who had somehow managed to insert themselves into a doll’s dining-room, it was obvious that the rector was ill at ease.  Again and again he seemed to be on the verge of some remark, perhaps of some outburst of speech, and to check himself only when the words were almost visibly trembling on his lips.  In his eyes Malling saw plainly his longing for utterance, his hesitation; reserve and a desire to liberate his soul, the one fighting against the other.  And at moments the whole man seemed to be wrapped in weakness like a garment, the soul and the body of him.  Then, as a light may dwindle till it seems certain to go out, all that was Marcus Harding seemed to Malling to dwindle.  The large body, the powerful head and face, meant little, almost nothing, because the spirit was surely fading.  But these moments passed.  Then it was as if the light flared suddenly up again.

When dinner was over, Mr. Harding asked Malling if he would like to take a stroll.

“The sea air will help us to sleep,” he said.

“I should like nothing better,” said Malling.  “Haven’t you been sleeping well lately?”

“Very badly.  We had better take our coats.”

They put the coats on, and went out, making their way to the broad, grassy walk raised above the shingle of the beach.  The tide was far down, and the oozing flats were uncovered.  So still, so waveless was the brown water that at this hour it was impossible to perceive where it met the brown land.  In the distance, on the right, shone the lights of Herne Bay, with its pier stretching far out into the shallows.  Away to the left was the lonely island of Sheppey, a dull shadow beyond the harbor, where the oyster-boats lay at rest.  There were very few people about:  some fisher-lads solemnly or jocosely escorting their girls, who giggled faintly as they passed Mr. Harding and Malling; two or three shopkeepers from Whitstable taking the air; a boatman or two vaguely hovering, with blue eyes turned from habit to the offing.

The two men paced slowly up and down.  And again Malling was aware of words trembling upon the rector’s lips—­words which he could not yet resolve frankly to utter.  Whether it was the influence of the faintly sighing sea, of the almost sharply pure air, of the distant lights gleaming patiently, or whether an influence came out from the man beside him and moved him, Malling did not know; but he resolved to do a thing quite contrary to his usual practice.  He resolved to try to force a thing on, instead of waiting till it came to him naturally.  He became impatient, he who was generally a patient seeker.