Mr. Julian Adderley smiled faintly, and fixed a pair of rather fine grey eyes on Walden with a mute appeal, as one who should say with Hamlet ‘These tedious old fools!’ Meanwhile Sir Morton Pippitt had secured the last member of his party affectionately by the arm, and continuing his stage whisper said: 

“Permit me, Mr. Walden!  This is one of our greatest London literary lights!  He will particularly appreciate anything you may he good enough to tell him respecting your work of restoration here—­Mr. Marius Longford, of the Savile and Savage clubs!”

Mr. Marius Longford, of the Savile and Savage clubs, bent his head with an air of dignified tolerance.  He was an angular personage, with a narrow head, and a face cleanly shaven, except at the sides where two small pussy-cat whiskers fringed his sharply defined jaws.  He had a long thin mouth, and long thin slits for his eyes to peep through,—­they would have been eyelids with other people, but with him they were merely slits.  He was a particularly neat man in appearance—­his clothes were well brushed, his linen spotless, his iron-grey hair sleek, and his whole appearance that of a man well satisfied with his own exterior personality.  Walden glanced at this great London literary light as indifferently as he would have glanced at an incandescent lamp in the street, or other mechanical luminary.  He had not as yet spoken a word.  Sir Morton had done all the talking; but the power of silence always overcomes in the end, and John’s absolute non-committal of himself to any speech, had at last the effect he desired—­namely that of making Sir Morton appear a mere garrulous old interloper, and his ‘distinguished’ friends somewhat of the cheap tripper persuasion.  The warm May sun poured through the little shrine of prayer, casting flickers of gold and silver on the ‘Saint at Rest’ before the altar, and showering azure and rose patterns through the ancient stained glass which filled the side lancet windows.  The stillness became for the moment intense and almost oppressive,—­Sir Morton Pippitt fidgeted uneasily, pulled at his high starched collar and became red in the face,—­the Reverend ‘Putty’ forgot himself so far as to pinch one of his own legs and hum a little tune, while the rest of the party waited for the individual whom their host had so frequently called ’the damned parson’ to speak.  The tension was relieved by the sudden quiet entrance of a young woman carrying a roll of music.  Seeing the group of persons in the chancel, she paused in evident uncertainty.  Walden glanced at her, and his composed face all at once lighted up with that kindly smile which in such moments made him more than ordinarily handsome.

“Come along, Miss Eden,” he said in a low clear tone; “You are quite at liberty to practise as usual.  Sir Morton Pippitt and his friends will not disturb you.”

Miss Eden smiled sedately and bent her head, passing by the visitors with an easy demeanour and assured step, and made her way to where the organ, small, but sweet and powerful, occupied a corner near the chancel.  While she busied herself in opening the instrument and arranging her musics Walden took advantage of the diversion created by her entrance to address himself to the knight Pippitt.