The range of the conversation upon which they at length embarked was a tacit acknowledgment of a relationship which now united four persons who, six months before, would have believed themselves to have had nothing in common.  And it was characteristic of the new interest that it transcended the limits of the parish of St. John’s, touched upon the greater affairs to which that parish—­if their protest prevailed—­would now be dedicated.  Not that the church was at once mentioned, but subtly implied as now enlisted,—­and emancipated henceforth from all ecclesiastical narrowness . . . .  The amazing thing by which Hodder was suddenly struck was the naturalness with which Alison seemed to fit into the new scheme.  It was as though she intended to remain there, and had abandoned all intention of returning to the life which apparently she had once permanently and definitely chosen....

Bedloe Hubbell’s campaign was another topic.  And Phil had observed, with the earnestness which marked his more serious statements, that it wouldn’t surprise him if young Carter, Hubbell’s candidate for mayor, overturned that autumn the Beatty machine.

“Oh, do you think so!” Alison exclaimed with exhilaration.

“They’re frightened and out of breath,” said Phil, “they had no idea that Bedloe would stick after they had licked him in three campaigns.  Two years ago they tried to buy him off by offering to send him to the Senate, and Wallis Plimpton has never got through his head to this why he refused.”

Plimpton’s head, Eleanor declared dryly, was impervious to a certain kind of idea.

“I wonder if you know, Mr. Hodder, what an admirer Mr. Hubbell is of yours?” Alison asked.  “He is most anxious to have a talk with you.”

Hodder did not know.

“Well,” said Phil, enthusiastically, to the rector, “that’s the best tribute you’ve had yet.  I can’t say that Bedloe was a more unregenerate heathen than I was, but he was pretty bad.”

This led them, all save Hodder, into comments on the character of the congregation the Sunday before, in the midst of which the rector was called away to the telephone.  Sally Grover had promised to let him know whether or not they had found Kate Marcy, and his face was grave when he returned . . . .  He was still preoccupied, an hour later, when Alison arose to go.

“But your carriage isn’t here,” said Phil, going to the window.

“Oh, I preferred to, walk,” she told him, “it isn’t far.”

III

A blood-red October moon shed the fulness of its light on the silent houses, and the trees, still clinging to leaf, cast black shadows across the lawns and deserted streets.  The very echoes of their footsteps on the pavement seemed to enhance the unreality of their surroundings:  Some of the residences were already closed for the night, although the hour was not late, and the glow behind the blinds of the others was nullified by the radiancy from above.  To Hodder, the sense of their isolation had never been more complete.