ience at all corresponded with this, and as she
had no love of language she had long ceased to attend to such remarks,
although she followed them with the same kind of mechanical respect with
which she heard many of Lear's speeches read aloud. Her mind was still
serene and really occupied with praise of her own nature and praise of
God, that is of the solemn and satisfactory order of the world.

But it could be seen from a glance at their faces that most of the
others, the men in particular, felt the inconvenience of the sudden
intrusion of this old savage. They looked more secular and critical as
then listened to the ravings of the old black man with a cloth round his
loins cursing with vehement gesture by a camp-fire in the desert. After
that there was a general sound of pages being turned as if they were in
class, and then they read a little bit of the Old Testament about making
a well, very much as school boys translate an easy passage from the
_Anabasis_ when they have shut up their French grammar. Then they
returned to the New Testament and the sad and beautiful figure
of Christ. While Christ spoke they made another effort to fit his
interpretation of life upon the lives they lived, but as they were all
very different, some practical, some ambitious, some stupid, some wild
and experimental, some in love, and others long past any feeling except
a feeling of comfort, they did very different things with the words of
Christ.

From their faces it seemed that for the most part they made no effort
at all, and, recumbent as it were, accepted the ideas the words gave
as representing goodness, in the same way, no doubt, as one of those
industrious needlewomen had accepted the bright ugly pattern on her mat
as beauty.

Whatever the reason might be, for the first time in her life, instead
of slipping at once into some curious pleasant cloud of emotion, too
familiar to be considered, Rachel listened critically to what was being
said. By the time they had swung in an irregular way from prayer to
psalm, from psalm to history, from history to poetry, and Mr. Bax was
giving out his text, she was in a state of acute discomfort. Such was
the discomfort she felt when forced to sit through an unsatisfactory
piece of music badly played. Tantalised, enraged by the clumsy
insensitiveness of the conductor, who put the stress on the wrong
places, and annoyed by the vast flock of the audience tamely praising
and acquiescing without knowi