He was a slight, delicate man of middle size.  His hair and moustache were almost quite white.  Something in the air of neatness and perfection about his dress, in the extreme gravity and clearness of his grey eyes, even in the fine texture of that long, thin, drooping moustache, made it evident to me that this new companion was not what we call an ordinary person.

“Your friend did not come in with you.”  The voice spoke disappointment; the speaker looked wistfully at the form of the retreating clergyman which he could just see through a gap in the shrubs.

“You wished him to come?”

“I saw you coming.  I came toward the gate in the hope that he might come in.”  Then he added a word of cordial greeting.  I perceived that I was walking with my host.

There are some men to whom one instinctively pays the compliment of direct speech.  “I have been walking with two clergymen.  I understand that you differ from both with regard to religious opinion.”

It appeared to me that after this speech of mine he took my measure quietly.  He did not say in so many words he did not see that this difference of opinion was a sufficient reason for their absence, but by some word or sign he gave me to understand that, adding: 

“I feel myself deprived of a great benefit in being without their society.  They are the two best and noblest men I know.”

“It is rare for men to take pleasure in the society of their opponents.”

“Yet you will admit that to be willing to learn from those from whom we differ is the only path to wisdom.”

“It is difficult to tread that path without letting go what we already have, and that produces chaos.”

With intensity both of thought and feeling he took up the words that I had dropped half idly, and showed me what he thought to be the truth and untruth of them.  There was a grave earnestness in his speech which made his opinion on this subject suddenly become of moment to me, and his intensity did not produce any of that sensation of irritation or opposition which the intensity of most men produces as soon as it is felt.

“You think that the chief obstacle which is hindering the progress of true religion in the world at present is that while we will not learn from those who disagree with us we can obtain no new light, and that when we are willing to reach after their light we become also willing to let go what we have had, so that the world does not gain but loses by the transaction.  This is, I admit, an obstacle to thought; but it is not the essential difficulty of our age.”

“Let us consider,” I said, in my pedantic way, “how my difficulty may be overcome, and then let us discuss that one you consider to be essential.”

Toyner’s choice of words, like his appearance, betrayed a strong, yet finely chiselled personality.