“Retrospective enmity!  Very well!” muttered the professor.  “I understand you.  Keep on!”

“This hostility—­if I may call a feeling at first not very definite by so definite a name—­induced in me a critical attitude of mind.  I found myself, to my surprise, secretly criticizing the man whom till now I had regarded as altogether beyond the reach of criticism.  I felt that Marcus Harding was giving me power.  I was grateful to him for doing so; yet I began to see him in a new, and at moments an unpleasant light.  Presently, after trying in vain to combat this novel sensation, which seemed to me almost treacherous, almost disloyal, I sought about for a reason, to give myself at least some justification for it.  I sought, and one night it seemed to me that I found.

“On that night I was more than ever aware that strength of some kind was pouring into me.  I had an almost heady sensation, such as one who drinks a generous wine may experience.  When we rose from the table I told my rector so.  He stared at me very strangely.  Then he said:  ’Good!  Good!  Didn’t I tell you I would give you some of my power?’ He paused.  Then he added:  ‘It will come!  It must come!’ As he spoke the last words he frowned, and all his face seemed to harden, as if he were making a violent mental effort to which the body was obliged to respond.  And at that instant I was aware that the reason Marcus Harding had given to me to persuade me to these sittings was not the true one, that his purpose was quite other than that which I had hitherto supposed it to be.  I was suddenly aware of this, and I thought:  ’I must already have been aware of it subconsciously, and that accounts for my sensation of hostility toward the rector.’  A lie had been told to me.  My new self-confidence resented this; and I said to myself, ’If Marcus Harding can tell a lie to me, who almost worshiped him, he must be an arrant hypocrite.’

“We sat again, and again I knew that there was something in the mind of my companion which he concealed from me, something to which I should strongly object if I knew what it was, something which troubled the atmosphere, the mental atmosphere, of the sitting.  Instead of being in accord, we were engaged in a silent, but violent, struggle.  I was determined not to be overcome.  A sort of fierce desire for tyranny sprang up in me.  I longed to see Marcus Harding at my feet.

“Again and again we sat.  My hostile feeling grew.  My critical feeling grew.  My longing to tyrannize increased, till I was almost afraid of it, so cruel did I feel it to be.  ‘Down!  Down under my feet!’ That was what my soul was secretly saying now to the man whose will had been as law to me.  And one night, as if he heard that ugly voice of my soul, he abruptly got up from the table and said:  ’It seems to me that you and I are not en rapport.  It seems to me that no more good can come of these sittings.  We had better not sit again.”