When Mark came to live in Keppel Street, most of the brothels and many of the public houses had been eliminated from the district, and in their place flourished various clubs and guilds.  The services in the church were crowded:  there was a long roll of communicants; the civilization of the city of God was visible in this Chatsea slum.  One or two of the lay helpers used to horrify Mark with stories of early days there, and when he seemed inclined to regret that he had arrived so late upon the scene, they used to tease him about his missionary spirit.

“If he can’t reform the people,” said Cartwright, one of the lay helpers, a tall thin young man with a long nose and a pleasant smile, “he still has us to reform.”

“Come along, Mark Anthony,” said Warrender, another lay helper, who after working for seven years among the poor had at last been charily accepted by the Bishop for ordination.  “Come along.  Why don’t you try your hand on us?”

“You people seem to think,” said Mark, “that I’ve got a mania for reforming.  I don’t mean that I should like to see St. Agnes’ where it was merely for my own personal amusement.  The only thing I’m sorry about is that I didn’t actually see the work being done.”

Father Rowley came in at this moment, and everybody shouted that Mark was going to preach a sermon.

“Splendid,” said the Missioner whose voice when not moved by emotion was rich in a natural unction that encouraged everyone round to suppose he was being successfully humorous, such a savour did it add to the most innutritious chaff.  Those who were privileged to share his ordinary life never ceased to wonder how in the pulpit or in the confessional or at prayer this unction was replaced by a remote beauty of tone, a plangent and thrilling compassion that played upon the hearts of all who heard him.

“Now really, Father Rowley,” Mark protested.  “Do I preach a great deal?  I’m always being chaffed by Cartwright and Warrender about an alleged mania for reforming people, which only exists in their imagination.”

Indeed Mark had long ago grown out of the desire to reform or to convert anybody, although had he wished to keep his hand in, he could have had plenty of practice among the guests of the Mission House.  Nobody had ever succeeded in laying down the exact number of casual visitors that could be accommodated therein.  However full it appeared, there was always room for one more.  Taking an average, day in, day out through the year, one might fairly say that there were always eight or nine casual guests in addition to the eight or nine permanent residents, of whom Mark was soon glad to be able to count himself one.  The company was sufficiently mixed to have been offered as a proof to the sceptical that there was something after all in simple Christianity.  There would usually be a couple of prefects from Silchester, one or two ’Varsity men, two or three bluejackets or marines, an odd soldier