on that phrase. For the first time in his life, this
morning he distrusted his gift. He was out of touch with them
all--because they were dead, killed by forms and repetitions and
monotony. "We're all dead, you know, and I'm dead too. Let's close the
doors and seal this church up. Our day is over." He said of course
nothing of the kind. His sermon was stupid, halting and ineffective.

"Naturally," as Colonel Rideout said over his port at lunch, "when a
feller's wife's uncle has just hung himself in public, so to speak, it
does take the wind out of you. He usen't to preach badly once. Got
stale. They all do."

As Paul dismissed the congregation with the Blessing he felt that
everything was over. He was more completely miserable than he had ever
been. He had in fact never before been really miserable except when he
had the toothache. And now, also, the custom of years made it
impossible for him to be miserable for long. He had had no real talk
with Maggie since the inquest. Maggie came into his study that
afternoon. Their conversation was very quiet and undemonstrative; it
happened to be one of the most important conversations in both their
lives, and, often afterwards, Paul looked back to it, trying to retrace
in it the sentences and movements with which it had been built up. He
could never recover anything very much. He could see Maggie sitting in
a way that she had on the edge of her chair, looking at him and looking
also far beyond him. He knew afterwards that this was the last moment
in his life that he had any contact with her. Like a witch, like a
ghost, she had come into his life; like a witch, like a ghost, she went
out of it, leaving him, for the remainder of his days, a haunted man.

As he looked at her he realised that she had aged in this last
fortnight. Yes, that horrible affair had taken it out of her. She
seemed to have recovered self-control at some strange and unnatural
cost--as though she had taken some potion or drug.

She began by asking Grace's question:

"Paul, what are we going to do?"

But she did not irritate him as Grace had done. His one idea was to
help her; unfortunately he had himself thought out nothing clearly.

"Well, Maggie," he answered, smiling, "I thought you might help me
about that. I want your advice. I thought--well, as a matter of fact I
hadn't settled anything--but I thought that I might get a locum for a
month or two and we might go abroad for a trip perhaps. To Paris, o