e did not know whether he had a great respect for her, but
he knew that he had a great respect for her mind. Like Beattie, but in
a very different way, she meant a great deal. He no longer doubted that
she liked him very much, though why he honestly did not know. When with
her he felt strongly that he was not an interesting man. Dumeny was
a beast, he felt sure, but he also felt sure that Dumeny was an
interesting man.

Mrs. Clarke's wild mind attracted something in him. Through her eyes he
was able to see the tameness of Welsley, a dear tameness, safe, cozy,
full of a very English charm and touched with ancient beauty, but
still----! Would the petals of Rosamund ever curl up and go brown at
the edges from living at Welsley? No, he could not imagine that ever
happening. A dried-up mind she could never have.

He would not see Welsley through the eyes of Mrs. Clarke.

Nevertheless when he got out of the train at Welsley Station, and saw
Robin's pal, the Archdeacon, getting out too, and a couple of minor
canons, who had come up for the evening papers or something, greeting
him with an ecclesiastical heartiness mingled with just a whiff of
professional deference, Mrs. Clarke's verdict of "stifling" recurred to
his mind.

Stamboul and Welsley--Mrs. Clarke and Rosamund!

The dual comparison made him at once see the truth. Stamboul and Welsley
were beautiful; each possessed an enticing quality; but the one enticed
by its grandiose mystery, by its sharp contrasts of marble stability
and matchboard frailty, by its melancholy silences and spaces, by its
obscure peace and its dangerous passion; the other by its delightful
simplicity, its noble homeliness, its dignity and charm of an old faith
and a smiling unworldliness, its harmonies of gray and of green, of
stone and verdure, its serenity lifted skywards by many bells.

But at the heart of Stamboul the dust lay thick, and there was dew at
the heart of Welsley.

Perhaps green Elis, with its sheep-bells, the eternal voices of its pine
trees, the celestial benignity of its Hermes, was more to be desired
than either Stamboul or Welsley. But for the moment Welsley was very
desirable.

Dion gave his bag to an "outside porter," and walked to the Precincts
with the Archdeacon.

He found Rosamund uplifted and triumphant; Mr. Thrush had finally
captivated the Dean, and had been given the "situation" which Rosamund
had desired for him. Her joy was almost ebullient. She could tal