es. Its aim was goodness and the bishop called it God. His
definition of faith was, except for the different object, precisely Mrs.
Ascher's.

Gorman propounds a somewhat similar philosophy of life, and occasionally
talks about faith in the same rapt way. I do not suppose that he
actually holds the faith he preaches, certainly not as Mrs. Ascher and
the bishop hold theirs. No Irishman is, or ever can be, a Liberal after
the English fashion; but Gorman does talk about the spirit of democracy
and says he looks forward to its guiding Humanity to a great end,
universal peace.

I made my way into Ascher's study, wondering how long I should have to
wait for him.

I wondered where he was and what he was doing. Who sent Jack Heneage
to search for Ascher? I could not remember whose private secretary Jack
was. Mrs. Ascher was thinking of art and beauty, the bishop, no doubt
about God and goodness. Gorman was turning over in his mind nice new
phrases about democracy and peace. What was Ascher doing?

CHAPTER XVII.

Ascher's servant followed me into the study. He placed a little table
beside the chair on which I sat. He set a decanter of whisky, a syphon
of soda water and a box of cigars at my elbow. He brought a reading
lamp and put it behind me, switching on the electric current so that the
light fell brightly over my shoulder. He turned off the other lights in
the room. He asked me if there were anything else he could do for me.
Then he left me.

A clock, somewhere behind me, chimed. It was a quarter to twelve. I
poured out some whisky and lit a cigar. I sat wondering what Ascher was
doing. The clock chimed again and then it struck. It was twelve o'clock.
It was a clock with a singularly mellow gong. The sounds it made were
soft and unaggressive. There was no rude challenge in its assertion
that time was passing on, but the very gentleness of its warnings, a
gentleness deeply tinged with melancholy, infected me with a strange
restlessness. When for the third time its chiming broke the heavy
silence of the room, I rose from my chair. The gloom which surrounded
the circle of light in which I sat weighed on my spirits. I touched a
switch and set the lights above the fireplace shining.

Over the mantelpiece hung a picture, a landscape painting. A flock of
sheep wandered through a misty valley. There were great mountains in the
background, their slopes and tops dimly, discernible through a haze. The
haze and the mist w