as four years
since he had preached that sermon; four years, and England was at peace,
the sun shone, the people of Crome were as wicked and indifferent
as ever--more so, indeed, if that were possible. If only he could
understand, if the heavens would but make a sign! But his questionings
remained unanswered. Seated there in his brown varnished chair under the
Ruskinian window, he could have screamed aloud. He gripped the arms of
his chair--gripping, gripping for control. The knuckles of his hands
whitened; he bit his lip. In a few seconds he was able to relax the
tension; he began to rebuke himself for his rebellious impatience.

Four years, he reflected; what were four years, after all? It must
inevitably take a long time for Armageddon to ripen to yeast itself up.
The episode of 1914 had been a preliminary skirmish. And as for the war
having come to an end--why, that, of course, was illusory. It was still
going on, smouldering away in Silesia, in Ireland, in Anatolia; the
discontent in Egypt and India was preparing the way, perhaps, for a
great extension of the slaughter among the heathen peoples. The Chinese
boycott of Japan, and the rivalries of that country and America in the
Pacific, might be breeding a great new war in the East. The prospect,
Mr. Bodiham tried to assure himself, was hopeful; the real, the genuine
Armageddon might soon begin, and then, like a thief in the night...But,
in spite of all his comfortable reasoning, he remained unhappy,
dissatisfied. Four years ago he had been so confident; God's intention
seemed then so plain. And now? Now, he did well to be angry. And now he
suffered too.

Sudden and silent as a phantom Mrs. Bodiham appeared, gliding
noiselessly across the room. Above her black dress her face was pale
with an opaque whiteness, her eyes were pale as water in a glass, and
her strawy hair was almost colourless. She held a large envelope in her
hand.

"This came for you by the post," she said softly.

The envelope was unsealed. Mechanically Mr. Bodiham tore it open.
It contained a pamphlet, larger than his own and more elegant in
appearance. "The House of Sheeny, Clerical Outfitters, Birmingham." He
turned over the pages. The catalogue was tastefully and ecclesiastically
printed in antique characters with illuminated Gothic initials. Red
marginal lines, crossed at the corners after the manner of an Oxford
picture frame, enclosed each page of type, little red crosses took the
place o