There was no second Service, and the congregation melted out behind her, and had dispersed into the streets and squares long before she came forth.  After hesitating whether or no to go to the vestry door, she turned away and walked home alone.

It was this deliberate evasion of all contact which probably clinched the business.  The absence of vent, of any escape-pipe for the feelings, is always dangerous.  They felt cheated.  If Noel had come out amongst all those whose devotions her presence had disturbed, if in that exit, some had shown and others had witnessed one knows not what of a manifested ostracism, the outraged sense of social decency might have been appeased and sleeping dogs allowed to lie, for we soon get used to things; and, after all, the war took precedence in every mind even over social decency.  But none of this had occurred, and a sense that Sunday after Sunday the same little outrage would happen to them, moved more than a dozen quite unrelated persons, and caused the posting that evening of as many letters, signed and unsigned, to a certain quarter.  London is no place for parish conspiracy, and a situation which in the country would have provoked meetings more or less public, and possibly a resolution, could perhaps only thus be dealt with.  Besides, in certain folk there is ever a mysterious itch to write an unsigned letter—­such missives satisfy some obscure sense of justice, some uncontrollable longing to get even with those who have hurt or disturbed them, without affording the offenders chance for further hurt or disturbance.

Letters which are posted often reach their destination.

On Wednesday morning Pierson was sitting in his study at the hour devoted to the calls of his parishioners, when the maid announced, “Canon Rushbourne, sir,” and he saw before him an old College friend whom he had met but seldom in recent years.  His visitor was a short, grey-haired man of rather portly figure, whose round, rosy, good-humoured face had a look of sober goodness, and whose light-blue eyes shone a little.  He grasped Pierson’s hand, and said in a voice to whose natural heavy resonance professional duty had added a certain unction: 

“My dear Edward, how many years it is since we met!  Do you remember dear old Blakeway?  I saw him only yesterday.  He’s just the same.  I’m delighted to see you again,” and he laughed a little soft nervous laugh.  Then for a few moments he talked of the war and old College days, and Pierson looked at him and thought:  ‘What has he come for?’

“You’ve something to say to me, Alec,” he said, at last.

Canon Rushbourne leaned forward in his chair, and answered with evident effort:  “Yes; I wanted to have a little talk with you, Edward.  I hope you won’t mind.  I do hope you won’t.”

“Why should I mind?”

Canon Rushbourne’s eyes shone more than ever, there was real friendliness in his face.