Hodder invariably turned from his contemplation of Gordon Atterbury to the double blaring pew, which went from aisle to aisle.  In his heart, he would have preferred the approval of Eleanor Goodrich and her husband, and of Asa Waring.  Instinct spoke to him here; he seemed to read in their faces that he failed to strike in them responsive chords.  He was drawn to them:  the conviction grew upon him that he did not reach them, and it troubled him, as he thought, disproportionately.

He could not expect to reach all.  But they were the type to which he most wished to appeal; of all of his flock, this family seemed best to preserve the vitality and ideals of the city and nation.  Asa Waring was a splendid, uncompromising survival; his piercing eyes sometimes met Hodder’s across the church, and they held for him a question and a riddle.  Eleanor Goodrich bore on her features the stamp of true nobility of character, and her husband, Hodder knew, was a man among men.  In addition to a respected lineage, he possessed an unusual blending of aggressiveness and personal charm that men found irresistible.

The rector’s office in the parish house was a businesslike room on the first floor, fitted up with a desk, a table, straight-backed chairs, and a revolving bookcase.  And to it, one windy morning in March, came Eleanor Goodrich.  Hodder rose to greet her with an eagerness which, from his kindly yet penetrating glance, she did not suspect.

“Am I interrupting you, Mr. Hodder?” she asked, a little breathlessly.

“Not at all,” he said, drawing up a chair.  “Won’t you sit down?”

She obeyed.  There was an awkward pause during which the colour slowly rose to her face.

“I wanted to ask you one or two things,” she began, not very steadily.  “As perhaps you may know, I was brought up in this church, baptized and confirmed in it.  I’ve come to fear that, when I was confirmed, I wasn’t old enough to know what I was doing.”

She took a deep breath, amazed at her boldness, for this wasn’t in the least how she had meant to begin.  And she gazed at the rector anxiously.  To her surprise, he did not appear to be inordinately shocked.

“Do you know any better now?” he asked.

“Perhaps not,” she admitted.  “But the things of which I was sure at that time I am not sure of now.  My faith is—­is not as complete.”

“Faith may be likened to an egg, Mrs. Goodrich,” he said.  “It must be kept whole.  If the shell is chipped, it is spoiled.”

Eleanor plucked up her courage.  Eggs, she declared, had been used as illustrations by conservatives before now.

Hodder relieved her by smiling in ready appreciation.

“Columbus had reference to this world,” he said.  “I was thinking of a more perfect cue.”

“Oh!” she cried, “I dare say there is a more perfect one.  I should hate to think there wasn’t—­but I can’t imagine it.  There’s nothing in the Bible in the way of description of it to make me really wish to go there.  The New Jerusalem is too insipid, too material.  I’m sure I’m shocking you, but I must be honest, and say what I feel.”