the prototype of the modern priest, pleading against worldliness for the sake of beauty and of God.  With delicately chosen words and exquisite imagery, the calm enthusiasm of the orator, always self-controlled and sweetly convincing, seemed to Douglas like the transmutation of a beautiful picture into a beautiful poem, instinct with life, vivid and thrilling.  He stayed till the sermon was over and the solemn words of the benediction pronounced, till the deep, throbbing notes of the organ rang down the emptying aisles.  Then he walked out into the streets a saner and a better man.

The life tingled in his veins as he walked slowly back into pagan London.  Here the great restaurants, brilliantly lighted, reminded him that all day he had eaten nothing.  He jumped into a hansom and was driven to his rooms, kept the man while he changed his clothes, and drove to Piccadilly.  Here he entered a famous restaurant, known to him only by name, found a small table and ordered his dinner with care.  He leaned back and looked out upon the throng with a kindly human interest.  He had the feeling of having returned once more into touch with his kind.  A faint smile was upon his lips, too long suppressed; as he ate and drank, the heavy barrier which had come between him and the garden of his imagination seemed to glide apart.  He saw away into the future of the life-story which he was writing.  New images sprang up and the old ones became once more pliant and supple.  Difficulties fell away—­a singular clearness of perception seemed to come to him in those few minutes.  The joy of life was in his heart, the zest of it between his teeth.  He felt the unaccustomed colour in his cheeks, and an acquaintance who paused to shake hands was astonished at his affability.  The gay music sounded strangely to his ears after the great organ notes, but, in its way, it too was beautiful.  Life was meant to be beautiful.  He had never before felt so sure of it.

The men and women who dine in public at the restaurant of the moment are usually at their best.  Douglas was astonished at the beauty of the women, their dresses and jewellery, and the flowers with which their tables were smothered.  The gaiety of the place was infectious.  He too began to desire a companion.  He thought of Emily de Reuss—­how well she would look at his table, with her matchless art of dressing and wonderful pearls; he fancied, too, without vanity, that she would approve of his companionship in his present mood.  And from Emily de Reuss his thoughts wandered on to Cicely.  They were the only two women who had ever held any place in his life.  He contrasted them, and grew thoughtful.

Later, he paid his bill, lighted a cigar and strolled homewards.  Already his brain was at work.  The scenes of his story lay stretched invitingly before him—­it seemed that he would only have to take up his pen and write until exhaustion came.  He turned off the Strand, humming softly to himself, so wrapt in his world of teeming fancies that he did not notice the little figure in sober black, who looked eagerly into his face as she approached.  He would have passed on but for her timid word of remonstrance.