was so hopelessly littered with books, sermon papers, old letters and new letters, bottles of ink, bottles of glue, three huge volumes of a Bible Concordance, photographs, and sticks of sealing-wax, that the man who could be happy amid such confusion must surely be a kindly and benevolent creature.  How orderly had been Mr. Lasher’s table, with all the pens in rows, and little sharp drawers that clicked, marked A, B, and C, to put papers into.

Mr. Trenchard entered.

He was what the room had prophesied—­fat, red-faced, bald, extremely untidy, with stains on his coat and tobacco on his coat, that was turning a little green, and chalk on his trousers.  His eyes shone with pleased friendliness, but there was a little pucker in his forehead, as though his life had not always been pleasant.  He rubbed his nose, as he talked, with the back of his hand, and made sudden little darts at the chalk on his trousers, as though he would brush it off.  He had the face of an innocent baby, and when he spoke he looked at his companion with exactly the gaze of trusting confidence that a child bestows upon its elders.

“I hope you will forgive me,” said Seymour, smiling; “I’ve come, too, at such an awkward time, but the truth is I simply couldn’t help myself.  I ought, besides, to catch the four o’clock train back to Polchester.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Mr. Trenchard, smiling, rubbing his hands together, and altogether in the dark as to what his visitor might be wanting.

“Ah, but I haven’t explained; how stupid of me!  My name is Seymour.  I was here during several years, as a small boy, with Canon Lasher—­in my holidays, you know.  It’s years ago, and I’ve never been back.  I was at Polchester this morning and suddenly felt that I must come over.  I wondered whether you’d be so good as to let me look a little at the house and garden.”

There was nothing that Mr. Trenchard would like better.  How was Canon Lasher?  Well?  Good.  They met sometimes at meetings at Polchester.  Canon Lasher, Mr. Trenchard believed, liked it better at Polchester than at Clinton.  Honestly, it would break Mr. Trenchard’s heart if he had to leave the place.  But there was no danger of that now.  Would Mr. Seymour—­his wife would be delighted—­would he stay to luncheon?

“Why, that is too kind of you,” said Seymour, hesitating, “but there are so many of us, such a lot—­I mean,” he said hurriedly, at Mr. Trenchard’s innocent stare of surprise, “that it’s too hard on Mrs. Trenchard, with so little notice.”

He broke off confusedly.

“We shall only be too delighted,” said Mr. Trenchard.  “And if you have friends ...”

“No, no,” said Seymour, “I’m quite alone.”