The Plimptons, with their rubicund and aggressively healthy offspring, were always in evidence.  And there was Mrs. Larrabbee.  What between wealth and youth, independence and initiative, a widowhood now emerged from a mourning unexceptionable, an elegance so unobtrusive as to border on mystery, she never failed to agitate any atmosphere she entered, even that of prayer.  From time to time, Hodder himself was uncomfortably aware of her presence, and he read in her upturned face an interest which, by a little stretch of the imagination, might have been deemed personal . . . .

Another was Gordon Atterbury, still known as “young Gordon,” though his father was dead, and he was in the vestry.  He was unmarried and forty-five, and Mrs. Larrabbee had said he reminded her of a shrivelling seed set aside from a once fruitful crop.  He wore, invariably, checked trousers and a black cutaway coat, eyeglasses that fell off when he squinted, and were saved from destruction by a gold chain.  No wedding or funeral was complete without him.  And one morning, as he joined Mr. Parr and the other gentlemen who responded to the appeal, “Let your light so shine before men,” a strange, ironical question entered the rector’s mind—­was Gordon Atterbury the logical product of those doctrines which he, Hodder, preached with such feeling and conviction?

None, at least, was so fervent a defender of the faith, so punctilious in all observances, so constant at the altar rail; none so versed in rubrics, ritual, and canon law; none had such a knowledge of the Church fathers.  Mr. Atterbury delighted to discuss them with the rector at the dinner parties where they met; none was more zealous for foreign missions.  He was the treasurer of St. John’s.

It should undoubtedly have been a consolation to any rector to possess Mr. Atterbury’s unqualified approval, to listen to his somewhat delphic compliments,—­heralded by a clearing of the throat.  He represented the faith as delivered to the saints, and he spoke for those in the congregation to whom it was precious.  Why was it that, to Hodder, he should gradually have assumed something of the aspect of a Cerberus?  Why was it that he incited a perverse desire to utter heresies?

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.