flattered by that dramatic conception of herself as a restless intellect
struggling with the storms of doubt. It would be hard to say how Flaxman
Reed came to believe in any real passion of thought behind Audrey's
spiritual coquetry. His ministration to a living illusion was almost as
touching as his devotion to a dead ideal. But Audrey herself was too
completely the thrall of the illusion to feel compunction.

There was no voice to warn him that his enthusiasm was the prey of the
eternal vanity. He leaned back in his meditative hieratic attitude, his
elbows resting on the arm of his chair, his thin hands joined at the
finger-tips, wondering what he should say to help her. After all, Audrey
had stated her case a little vaguely--there was a reticence as to
details. These, however, he easily supplied from his own experience,
supposing hers to have been more or less like it. He said he wished he
had known of this before, that he had spoken sooner, wincing perceptibly
as Audrey pointed out the inexpediency of discussing eternal things on
so temporal an occasion as her dinner-party. He did not mean that. His
time now was short; he had a stupid parish meeting at five o'clock. He
went rapidly over the ground, past immemorial stumbling-stones of
thought, refuting current theories, suggesting lines of reading; in his
excitement he even recommended some slight study of Patristics. There
was nothing like getting to the sources--Polycarp and Irenaeus were
important; or he could lend her Lightfoot. But he did not want to
overwhelm her with dogmas--mere matter for the intellect--he would
prefer her to accept some truths provisionally and see how they worked
out. After all, the working out was everything. He wanted her to see
that it was a question of will. In the crisis of his own life he had
helped himself most by helping others--practically, he meant--seeing
after his poor people, and so on. Didn't she think it might be the same
with her?

Audrey looked grave. It was good to be taken seriously, but this was
going a little too far.

Didn't she think she could "do something? Other ladies----"

Flaxman Reed was doing well, very well indeed, but he had spoiled it all
by that hopelessly inartistic touch. Any man of the world could have
told him that to mention "other ladies" to Audrey--to take her out of
the circle of supreme intelligences in which he had placed her ten
minutes ago, and to confuse her with the rank and file of paroch