on the left and much nearer to the beach, said:

"That is the hotel where the professor must be staying, if he is here."

"I'll go over presently and ask about him."

"Oh," said Mr. Harding. "Bring in the bag, please, Jennings. The room on
the right, at the top of the stairs."

Malling had believed in London that Mr. Harding's telegram to him was a
cry out of darkness. That first evening in the cheerful doll's house he
knew his belief was well founded. When they sat at dinner, like two
monsters, Malling thought, who had somehow managed to insert themselves
into a doll's dining-room, it was obvious that the rector was ill at
ease. Again and again he seemed to be on the verge of some remark,
perhaps of some outburst of speech, and to check himself only when the
words were almost visibly trembling on his lips. In his eyes Malling
saw plainly his longing for utterance, his hesitation; reserve and a
desire to liberate his soul, the one fighting against the other. And at
moments the whole man seemed to be wrapped in weakness like a garment,
the soul and the body of him. Then, as a light may dwindle till it seems
certain to go out, all that was Marcus Harding seemed to Malling to
dwindle. The large body, the powerful head and face, meant little, almost
nothing, because the spirit was surely fading. But these moments passed.
Then it was as if the light flared suddenly up again.

When dinner was over, Mr. Harding asked Malling if he would like to take
a stroll.

"The sea air will help us to sleep," he said.

"I should like nothing better," said Malling. "Haven't you been sleeping
well lately?"

"Very badly. We had better take our coats."

They put the coats on, and went out, making their way to the broad,
grassy walk raised above the shingle of the beach. The tide was far
down, and the oozing flats were uncovered. So still, so waveless was
the brown water that at this hour it was impossible to perceive where
it met the brown land. In the distance, on the right, shone the lights
of Herne Bay, with its pier stretching far out into the shallows. Away
to the left was the lonely island of Sheppey, a dull shadow beyond the
harbor, where the oyster-boats lay at rest. There were very few people
about: some fisher-lads solemnly or jocosely escorting their girls, who
giggled faintly as they passed Mr. Harding and Malling; two or three
shopkeepers from Whitstable taking the air; a boatman or two vaguely
hovering, with blue eyes