sed of weaklings fit for neither
good nor evil, and every Sunday night they were gathered together for a
little while in the smell of warm wax and incense. Now already they were
trooping out into the frore evening; their footsteps would shuffle for a
space over the dark pavements; a few would have pickled cabbage and
cheese for supper, a few would not; such was life in this limbo between
Hell and Heaven. Barnes, however, was not to be judged with the bulk of
the congregation: another reason must be found for the influence of
Evening Prayer or of Chator's words upon him.

"Did you like the sermon?" Michael asked in the porch.

"I didn't listen to a word of it," said Barnes emphatically.

"Oh, really? I thought you were interested. You seemed interested," said
Michael.

"I was thinking what a mug I'd been not to back The Clown for the
Cesarewitch. I had the tip. You know, Fane, I'll tell you what it is.
I'm not used to money, and that's a fact. I don't know how to spend it.
I'm afraid of it. So bang it all goes on drinks."

"I thought you enjoyed the service," said Michael.

"Oh, I'm used to services. You know. On and off I've done a lot of
churchifying, I have. It would take something more than that fellow
preaching to curdle me up. I've gone through it. Religion, love, and
measles; they're all about the same. I don't reckon anybody gets them
more than once properly."

Michael told Barnes he was going on to supper at the Clergy House, and
though he had intended to invite him to come as well, he was so much
irritated by his unconscious deception that he let him go off, and went
back into the empty church to wait for Chator and Nigel Stewart. What
puzzled Michael most about Barnes was how himself had ever managed to be
impressed by his unusual wickedness. As he beheld him nowadays, a mean
and common little squirt of exceptional beastliness really, he was
amazed to think that once he had endowed him with almost diabolical
powers. He remembered to this day the gleam in Brother Aloysius' blue
eyes when he was gathering the blackberries by that hazel-coppice.
Perhaps it had been the monkish habit, which by contrast with his
expression had made him seem almost supernaturally evil; and yet when he
met him again at Earl's Court he had been kindled by those blue eyes.
Henry Meats had been very much like Henry Barnes; but where was now that
lambent flame in the eyes? He had looked at them many times lately, but
they had alw