“The general methods you adopt in the case of your congregation,” said I, “are matters of perfect indifference to me.  But I cannot see Judith imprisoned for life in a tin church without a protest.  Your proposal reminds me of the Siennese who owed a victorious general more than they could possibly repay.  The legend goes that they hanged him, in order to make him a saint after his death by way of reward.  I object to this sort of canonisation of Judith.  And she will object, too.  You seem to leave her out of account altogether.  She is mistress of her own actions.  She has a will of her own.  She is not going to give up her comfortable flat off the Tottenham Court Road in order to dwell in Hoxton.  She won’t go back to you under your conditions.”

He smiled indulgently and held out his hand to signify that the interview was over.

“She will, Sir Marcus.”

Was there ever such a Torquemada of a creature?  I respect religion.  I respect this man’s intense conviction of the reality of his conversion.  I can respect even the long frock coat and the long brown whiskers, which in the case of so dashing a worldling as Rupert Mainwaring were a deliberate and daily mortification of the flesh.  But I hold in shuddering detestation “the thumb-screw and the rack for the glory of the Lord,” which he cheerfully contemplated applying to Judith.

“Why on earth can’t you let the poor woman alone?” I asked, ignoring his hand.

“I am doing my duty to God and to her,” said he.

“With the result that you have driven her into hysterics.”

“She’ll get over them,” said he.

“I wish you good-day,” said I.  “We might talk together for a thousand years without understanding each other.”

“Pardon me,” he retorted, with the utmost urbanity.  “I understand you perfectly.”

He accompanied me to the dining-room where I had left my hat and umbrella, and to the flat door which he politely opened.  When it shut behind me I felt inclined to batter it open again and to take Judith by main force from under his nose.  But I suppose I am pusillanimous.  I found myself in the street brandishing my umbrella like a flaming sword and vowing to perform all sorts of Paladin exploits, which I knew in my heart were futile.

I hailed an omnibus in the Tottenham Court Road, and clambered to the top, though a slight drizzle was falling.  Why I did it I have not the remotest idea, for I abhor those locomotive engines of exquisite discomfort.  I had no preconceived notion of destination.  It was a moving thing that would carry me away from the Tottenham Court Road, away from the Rev. Rupert Mainwaring, away from myself.  I was the solitary occupant of the omnibus roof.  The rain fell, softly, persistently, soakingly.  I laughed aloud.

I recognised the predestined irony of things that at every corner checks the course of the ineffectual man.