Richard fixed his eyes on the woman’s face.  “Come in,” he said softly, brutally, loathingly.  Ellen shivered to hear him speak thus to a woman and to see a woman take it thus, for at once the stranger moved forward to the window and stepped into the room.  As she brushed by him she cringingly bowed her shoulders a little, and looked up at him as he stood a head and shoulders higher than herself.  He looked back steadily and made no sign of seeing her save by a slight compression of the lips, until she passed on with dragging feet and stood listlessly in the middle of the room.  It was evident that they completely understood one another, and yet their understanding sprung from no recollection of any previous encounter, for into the eyes of neither did there come any flash of recognition.  There could be no doubt that Richard was feeling nothing but contempt for this woman, and her peaked yet rich-coloured face expressed only sick sullenness; yet Ellen felt a rage like jealousy.

Richard turned again to the garden, and said:  “Come in.”

“Now don’t be high-handed, old man,” expostulated the stranger.  But then he seemed to remember something, and stretched out both his arms, held them rigid, and opened his mouth wide as if to speak very loudly.  But no sound came, and his arms dropped, and his long bony hands pawed the air.  Then suddenly his arms shot out again, and he exclaimed very quickly in a high, strained voice:  “Pride has always been your besetting sin, Richard.  You aren’t a bad chap in any way that I know of.  But you’re proud.  And it doesn’t become any of us to be proud”—­his spirit was shaking the words out of his faltering flesh—­“for we’re all miserable sinners.  You needn’t order me”—­he spoke more glibly now, the flesh and the spirit seemed in complete agreement—­“to come out of the garden like that.  I wish Poppy hadn’t gone in.”  He caught his breath with something like a sob; but the woman in uniform made no movement, and turned her eyes to Richard’s face as if it were he that must give the order.  “I’ve got a reason for staying out here.  I know mother’s not got Jesus.  If she’s ashamed of me now that I’m one of Jesus’ soldiers, I won’t come in.  I’ll go and wrestle on my knees for her soul, but I won’t hurt her by coming in.  So here I stay till she tells me to come in.”

“But she’s out,” said Richard.

The man in uniform was discomfited.  The light went out of his face and his mouth remained open.  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and muttered:  “Ooh-er, is she?”

“Yes,” said Richard pleasantly.  “She’s gone over to Friar’s End, but she’ll be back any time now.  I wish you’d come in.  I haven’t seen you for years, and I’d like to swap yarns with you about what we’ve been doing all the time.”

“You’d have the most to tell,” answered the other wistfully.  “You’ve been here, there, and everywhere in foreign parts.  And I haven’t been doing nothing at all.  Except—­” he added, brightening up, “being saved.”