himself over the failure to
discover Lily's whereabauts. Having placed himself at the nod of
destiny, he was content to believe that if he never found her he must be
content to look elsewhere for the expression of himself. September
became October. It would be six years this month since first they met,
and she was twenty-two now. Could seventeen be captured anew?

One afternoon from his window Michael was pondering the etiolated season
whose ghostliness was more apparent in Leppard Street, because no fall
of leaves marked material decline. Hurrying along the brindled walls
from the direction of Greenarbor Court was a parson whose walk was
perfectly familiar, though he could not affix it to any person he knew.
Yes, he could. It was Chator's, the dear, the pious and the bubbling
Chator's; and how absurdly the same as it used to be along the corridors
of St. James'. Michael rushed out to meet him, and had seized and shaken
his hand before Chator recognized him. When he did, however, he was
twice as much excited as Michael, and spluttered forth a fountain of
questions about his progress during these years with a great deal of
information about his own. He came in eagerly at Michael's invitation,
and so much had he still to ask and tell that it was a long time before
he wanted to know what had brought Michael to Leppard Street.

"How extraordinary to find you here, my dear fellow! This isn't my
district, you know. But the Senior Curate is ill. Greenarbor Court! I
say, what a dreadful slum!" Chator looked very intensely at Michael, as
if he expected he would offer to raze it to the ground immediately. "I
never realized we had anything quite so bad in the parish. But what
really is extraordinary about running across you like this is that a man
who's just come to us from Ely was talking about you only yesterday. My
goodness, how ..."

"It's no larger than a grain of sand," Michael interrupted quickly.

"What is?" asked Chator, with his familiar expression of perplexity at
Michael.

"You were going to comment on the size of the world, weren't you?"

"I suppose you'll rag me just as much as ever, you old brute." Chator
was beaming with delight at the prospect. "But seriously, this man
Stewart--Nigel Stewart. I think he was at Trinity, Oxford. You do know
him?"

"Nigel isn't here, too?" Michael exclaimed.

"He's our deacon."

"Oh, how priceless you'll both be in the pulpit," said Michael. "And
to-morrow's Sunday. Which