ly, though not
without some speed. He was warm and did not wish to be made warmer.

What he had not anticipated, and what disappointed him, was that from
the ante-chapel he could not see whether the Dashwoods were in the
Chapel or not. The screen and organ loft were in the way, they blocked
his vision, and not having any "permit" for the Chapel, he had to remain
in the ante-chapel, and just hope for the best. He seated himself as
near to the door as he could, on the end of the back bench, already
crowded. There he disposed of his hat and prepared himself to go through
with the service.

Boreham did not, of course, follow the prayers or make any responses; he
merely uttered a humming noise with the object of showing his mental
aloofness, and yet impressing the fact of his presence on the devout
around him.

Many a man who has a conscientious objection to prayer, likes to hear
himself sing. But Boreham's singing voice was not altogether under his
own control. It was as if the machinery that produced song was mislaid
somewhere down among his digestive organs and had got rusted, parts of
it being actually impaired.

It had been, in his younger days, a source of regret to Boreham that he
could never hope to charm the world by song as well as by words. As he
grew older that regret faded, and was now negligible.

Is there any religious service in the world more perfect than evensong
at Magdalen? Just now, in the twilight of the ante-chapel, a twilight
faintly lit above at the spring of the groined roof, the voices of the
choir rose and fell in absolute unison, with a thrill of subdued
complaint; a complaint uttered by a Hebrew poet dead and gone these many
years, a complaint to the God of his fathers, the only true God.

Boreham marked time (slightly out of time) muttering--

"Tum/tum tum/ti:
Tum/tum tum/tum ti/tum?"

loud enough to escape the humiliation of being confounded with those
weak-minded strangers who are carried away (in spite of their reason) by
the charm of sacerdotal blandishments.

He stood there among the ordinary church-goers, conscious that he was a
free spirit. He was happy. At least not so much happy as agreeably
excited by the contrast he made with those around him, and excited, too,
at what was going to happen in about half an hour. That is, if May
Dashwood was actually behind that heavy absurd screen in the Chapel. He
went on "tum-ing" as if she was there and all was well.

And with