Mrs. Plimpton and Mrs. Constable, Mrs. Ferguson, Mrs. Langmaid, Mrs. Larrabbee, Mrs. Atterbury, Mrs. Grey, and many other ladies and their daughters were honorary members of his guilds and societies, and found time in their busy lives to decorate the church, adorn the altar, care for the vestments, and visit the parish house.  Some of them did more:  Mrs. Larrabbee, for instance, when she was in town, often graced the girls’ classes with her presence, which was a little disquieting to the daughters of immigrants:  a little disquieting, too, to John Hodder.  During the three years that had elapsed since Mr. Larrabbee’s death, she had, with characteristic grace and ease, taken up philanthropy; become, in particular, the feminine patron saint of Galt House, non-sectarian, a rescue home for the erring of her sex.

There were, too, in this higher realm of wealth in and out of which Hodder plunged, women like Mrs. Constable (much older than Mrs. Larrabbee) with whom philanthropy and what is known as “church work” had become second nature in a well-ordered life, and who attended with praiseworthy regularity the meetings of charitable boards and committees, not infrequently taking an interest in individuals in Mr. Hodder’s classes.  With her, on occasions, he did discuss such matters, only to come away from her with his bewilderment deepened.

It was only natural that he should have his moods of depression.  But the recurrent flow of his energy swept them away.  Cynicism had no place in his militant Christianity, and yet there were times when he wondered whether these good people really wished achievements from their rector.  They had the air of saying “Bravo!” and then of turning away.  And he did not conceal from himself that he was really doing nothing but labour.  The distances were great; and between his dinner parties, classes, services, and visits, he was forced to sit far into the night preparing his sermons, when his brain was not so keen as it might have been.  Indeed—­and this thought was cynical and out of character—­he asked himself on one occasion whether his principal achievement so far had not consisted in getting on unusual terms with Eldon Parr.  They were not lacking who thought so, and who did not hesitate to imply it.  They evidently regarded his growing intimacy with the banker with approval, as in some sort a supreme qualification for a rector of St. John’s, and a proof of unusual abilities.  There could be no question, for instance, that he had advanced perceptibly in the estimation of the wife of another of his vestrymen, Mrs. Wallis Plimpton.

The daughter of Thurston Gore, with all her astuteness and real estate, was of a naivete in regard to spiritual matters that Hodder had grown to recognize as impermeable.  In an evening gown, with a string of large pearls testing on her firm and glowing neck, she appeared a concrete refutation of the notion of rebirth, the triumph of an unconscious philosophy of material common-sense.  However, in parish house affairs, Hodder had found her practical brain of no slight assistance.