Langmaid turned and picked up his hat and stick and left the room without another word.  The bewildered, wistful look which had replaced the ordinarily benign and cheerful expression haunted Hodder long after the lawyer had gone.  It was the look of a man who has somehow lost his consciousness of power.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE VESTRY MEETS

At nine o’clock that evening Hodder stood alone in the arched vestry room, and the sight of the heavy Gothic chairs ranged about the long table brought up memories of comfortable, genial meetings prolonged by chat and banter....  The noise of feet, of subdued voices beside the coat room in the corridor, aroused him.  All of the vestry would seem to have arrived at once.

He regarded them with a detached curiosity as they entered, reading them with a new insight.  The trace of off-handedness in Mr. Plimpton’s former cordiality was not lost upon him—­an intimation that his star had set.  Mr. Plimpton had seen many breaches healed—­had healed many himself.  But he had never been known as a champion of lost causes.

“Well, here we are, Mr. Hodder, on the stroke,” he remarked.  “As a vestry, I think we’re entitled to the first prize for promptness.  How about it, Everett?”

Everett Constable was silent.

“Good evening, Mr. Hodder,” he said.  He did not offer to shake hands, as Mr. Plimpton had done, but sat down at the far end of the table.  He looked tired and worn; sick, the rector thought, and felt a sudden swelling of compassion for the pompous little man whose fibre was not as tough as that of these other condottieri:  as Francis Ferguson’s, for instance, although his soft hand and pink and white face framed in the black whiskers would seem to belie any fibre whatever.

Gordon Atterbury hemmed and hawed,—­“Ah, Mr. Hodder,” and seated himself beside Mr. Constable, in a chair designed to accommodate a portly bishop.  Both of them started nervously as Asa Waring, holding his head high, as a man should who has kept his birthright, went directly to the rector.

“I’m glad to see you, Mr. Hodder,” he said, and turning defiantly, surveyed the room.  There was an awkward silence.  Mr. Plimpton edged a little nearer.  The decree might have gone forth for Mr. Hodder’s destruction, but Asa Waring was a man whose displeasure was not to be lightly incurred.

“What’s this I hear about your moving out of Hamilton Place, Mr. Waring?  You’d better come up and take the Spaulding lot, in Waverley, across from us.”

“I am an old man, Mr. Plimpton,” Asa Waring replied.  “I do not move as easily as some other people in these days.”

Everett Constable produced his handkerchief and rubbed his nose violently.  But Mr. Plimpton was apparently undaunted.

“I have always said,” he observed, “that there was something very fine in your sticking to that neighbourhood after your friends had gone.  Here’s Phil!”