ne of them
took any notice of me--particularly Miss Tattersall, whose failure to see
me was a marked and positive act of omission.

I realised that I had been disapproved and snubbed, but I was not at all
distressed by the fact. I put it all down to my failure in piety, begun
with my absence from prayers and now accentuated by my absence from
church. Olive, Nora Bailey, and Hughes had, I supposed, followed Mrs.
Jervaise's lead in duty bound, and I knew nearly enough why Miss
Tattersall had cut me. I had no idea, then, that I had come under
suspicion of a far more serious offence than that of a sectarian
nonconformity. Indeed, I hardly gave the matter a moment's attention. The
composition of the church-party had provided me with material for further
speculation concerning the subject that was absorbing all my interest. Why
were old Jervaise and his son also absent from the tale of those devoted
pilgrims? Was that interview in the Hall developing some crucial
situation, and had Frank been called in? One thing was certain: Banks had
not, as yet, come out. I had kept my eye on the front door. I could not
possibly have missed him.

And it was with the idea of seeing what inferences I could draw from his
general demeanour when he did come, rather than with any thought of
accosting him, that I maintained my thoughtful pacing up and down the lawn
on the garden side of the drive. I was relieved by the knowledge that that
party of church-goers were out of the way. I had a feeling of freedom such
as I used to have as a boy when I had been permitted to stay at home, on
some plea or another, on a Sunday morning. I had a sense of enlargement
and opportunity.

* * * * *

I must have been on that lawn for more than an hour, and my thoughts had
covered much ground that is not appropriate to this narrative, when I was
roused to a recognition of the fact that my brief freedom was passing and
that I was taking no advantage of any opportunity it might afford me.

The thing that suddenly stirred me to a new activity was the sound of the
stable-clock striking twelve. Its horrible bell still had the same note of
intrusive artificiality that had vexed me on the previous night, but it no
longer thrilled me with any sense of stage effect. It was merely a
mechanical and inappropriate invasion of that lovely Sunday morning.

There was a strange stimulation, however, in the deductions that I drew
from that porten