By so characteristic a remark Hodder was both amused and moved.  It revealed so perfectly the point of view and predicament of the lawyer, and it was also an expression of an affection which the rector cordially, returned . . . .  Before answering, he placed his visitor in the chair, and the deliberation of the act was a revelation of the unconscious poise of the clergyman.  The spectacle of this self-command on the brink of such a crucial event as the vestry meeting had taken Langmaid aback more than he cared to show.  He had lost the old sense of comradeship, of easy equality; and he had the odd feeling of dealing with a new man, at once familiar and unfamiliar, who had somehow lifted himself out of the everyday element in which they heretofore had met.  The clergyman had contrived to step out of his, Langmaid’s, experience:  had actually set him—­who all his life had known no difficulty in dealing with men—­to groping for a medium of communication . . . .

Hodder sat down on the other side of the fireplace.  He, too, seemed to be striving for a common footing.

“It was a question of proclaiming the truth when at last I came to see it, Langmaid.  I could not help doing what I did.  Matters of policy, of a false consideration for individuals could not enter into it.  If this were not so, I should gladly admit that you had a just grievance, a peculiar right to demand why I had not remained the strictly orthodox person whom you induced to come here.  You had every reason to congratulate yourself that you were getting what you doubtless would call a safe man.”

“I’ll admit I had a twinge of uneasiness after I came home,” Langmaid confessed.

Hodder smiled at his frankness.

“But that disappeared.”

“Yes, it disappeared.  You seemed to suit ’em so perfectly.  I’ll own up, Hodder, that I was a little hurt that you did not come and talk to me just before you took the extraordinary—­before you changed your opinions.”

“Would it have done any good?” asked the rector, gently.  “Would you have agreed with me any better than you do now?  I am perfectly willing, if you wish, to discuss with you any views of mine which you may not indorse.  And it would make me very happy, I assure you, if I could bring you to look upon the matter as I do.”

This was a poser.  And whether it were ingenuous, or had in it an element of the scriptural wisdom of the serpent, Langmaid could not have said.  As a lawyer, he admired it.

“I wasn’t in church, as usual,—­I didn’t hear the sermon,” he replied.  “And I never could make head or tail of theology—­I always told you that.  What I deplore, Hodder, is that you’ve contrived to make a hornets’ nest out of the most peaceful and contented congregation in America.  Couldn’t you have managed to stick to religion instead of getting mixed up with socialism?”

“So you have been given the idea that my sermon was socialistic?” the rector said.