He had, apparently, not been idle since Sunday, and was armed cap-a pie with time-worn arguments that need not be set down.  All of which went to show that Mr. Goodrich had not referred to the Middle Ages in vain.  For Gordon Atterbury was a born school-man.  But he finished by declaring, at the end of twenty minutes (much as he regretted the necessity of saying it), that Mr. Hodder’s continuance as rector would mean the ruin of the church in which all present took such a pride.  That the great majority of its members would never submit to what was so plainly heresy.

It was then that Mr. Plimpton gathered courage to pour oil on the waters.  There was nothing, in his opinion, he remarked smilingly, in his function as peacemaker, to warrant anything but the most friendly interchange of views.  He was second to none in his regard for Mr. Hodder, in his admiration for a man who had the courage of his convictions.  He had not the least doubt that Mr. Hodder did not desire to remain in the parish when it was so apparent that the doctrines which he now preached were not acceptable to most of those who supported the church.  And he added (with sublime magnanimity) that he wished Mr. Hodder the success which he was sure he deserved, and gave him every assurance of his friendship.

Asa Waring was about to rise, when he perceived that Hodder himself was on his feet.  And the eyes of every man, save one, were fixed on him irresistibly.  The rector seemed unaware of it.  It was Philip Goodrich who remarked to his father-in-law, as they walked home afterwards, of the sense he had had at that moment that there were just two men in the room,—­Hodder and Eldon Parr.  All the rest were ciphers; all had lost, momentarily, their feelings of partisanship and were conscious only of these two intense, radiating, opposing centres of force; and no man, oddly enough, could say which was the stronger.  They seemingly met on equal terms.  There could not be the slightest doubt that the rector did not mean to yield, and yet they might have been puzzled if they had asked themselves how they had read the fact in his face or manner.  For he betrayed neither anger nor impatience.

No more did the financier reveal his own feelings.  He still sat back in his chair, unmoved, in apparent contemplation.  The posture was familiar to Langmaid.

Would he destroy, too, this clergyman?  For the first time in his life, and as he looked at Hodder, the lawyer wondered.  Hodder did not defend himself, made no apologies.  Christianity was not a collection of doctrines, he reminded them,—­but a mode of life.  If anything were clear to him, it was that the present situation was not, with the majority of them, a matter of doctrines, but of unwillingness to accept the message and precept of Jesus Christ, and lead Christian lives.  They had made use of the doctrines as a stalking-horse.

There was a stir at this, and Hodder paused a moment and glanced around the table.  But no one interrupted.