Had he seen that action her lover would have been thoroughly satisfied.  A young woman must be very deeply in love with a man when she kisses the cover of a book which he has just published.  That is what George Holland would have thought, having but a superficial acquaintance with the motives that sway young women.

Later in the day he had replied to her letter, and had appointed four o’clock on the following afternoon as the hour when he trusted she would find it convenient to see him, in order to give him an opportunity of making an explanation which he trusted would enable her to see that “Revised Versions,” so far from being the dreadful book she seemed to imagine it to be, was in reality written with a high purpose.

She had not shrunk from an interview with him.  She had sent him a line to let him know that she would be at home at four o’clock; and now she sat in her drawing room and observed, without emotion, that in five minutes that hour would strike.

The clock struck, and before the last tone had died away, the footman announced the Rev. George Holland.

CHAPTER IV.

She had no right to accuse him of reading the Bible daily.

Phyllis shook hands with her visitor.  He sought to retain her hand, as he had been in the habit of doing, as he stood beside her with something of a proprietary air.  He relinquished her hand with a little look of surprise—­a sort of pained surprise.  She was inexorable.  She would not even allow him to maintain his proprietary air.

“Do sit down, Mr. Holland,” she said.

“What!  ‘Mr. Holland’ already?  Oh, Phyllis!”

He had a good voice, full of expression—­something beyond mere musical expression.  People (they were mostly women) said that his voice had soul in it, whatever they meant by that.

She made no reply.  What reply could she make?  She only waited for him to sit down.

“Your letter came as a great shock to me, Phyllis,” said he, when he had seated himself, not too close to her.  He did not wish her to fancy that he was desirous of having a subtle influence of propinquity as an ally.  “A great shock to me.”

“A shock?” said she.  “A shock, after you had written that book?”

“I fancied you would understand it, Phyllis—­you, at least.  Of course I expected to be misrepresented by the world—­the critics—­the clerics—­what you will—­but you——­You had not read it when you wrote that letter to me—­that terrible letter.  You could not have read it.”

“I had only read one notice of it—­that was enough.”

“And you could write that letter to me solely as the evidence of one wretched print?  Oh, Phyllis!”

Pain was in his voice.  It may have been in his face as well, but she did not see it; his face was averted from her.