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at once.”
    â€œPerhaps he is,” said Richard doubtfully.
    Jonathan came to a stop by the easel and sighed drearily. “No,” he said, “no. I’m afraid not. In fact, I’m afraid it’s a complete give-away for me. The main point is—do you think Lady Wallingford will notice it? And what will she say if she does?”
    â€œI shouldn’t think she would,” said Richard. “After all, I only just did myself and I’m far more used to your style than she is.”
    â€œShe may not be used to me, but she’s extremely used to him,” Jonathan said gloomily. “She’s one of the real inner circle. Betty and I will have a much more difficult time if there’s any trouble. Otherwise, I shouldn’t mind in the least. What do you people know about him, Richard?”
    â€œWe know,” said Richard, “that his name is Simon Leclerc—sometimes called Father Simon and sometimes Simon the Clerk. We gather he’s a Jew by descent, though born in France, and brought up in America. We know that he has a great power of oratory—at least, over there; he hasn’t tried it much here so far—and that it’s said he’s performed a number of very remarkable cures, which I don’t suppose we’ve checked. We know that quite intelligent people are attached to him—and that’s about all we do know; at least, it’s all I know. But, as I told you, I’ve not been particularly interested. You say you’ve heard him preach; what does he preach?”
    â€œLove,” said Jonathan, more gloomily than ever as he looked at his watch. “They’ll be here in a minute. Love, so far as I can gather, but I was more looking at him than listening to him and it’s almost impossible for me really to do both at once. I could sort of feel his effect going on all round. But it was mostly Love, with a hint of some secret behind, which Love no doubt could find out. He sometimes gives private interviews, I know, but I really felt it’d be too embarrassing to go to one. So I can only generalize from the bits I caught while I was staring. Love, and something else.”
    There was a ring at the front door bell, Jonathan threw the cover again over the painting, and said, “Richard, if you go now, I’ll never forgive you. And if you don’t say the right thing, I’ll never listen to a word of yours again.” He went hastily out.
    He was back so soon that Richard had hardly time to do more than feel at a distance within him that full and recollected life which, whenever it did show itself, threatened to overthrow all other present experiences. It was his first experience of such a nature, of “another” life. Almost, as he too turned from the easel, he saw Lester’s dead face, as he had seen it, floating, dim and ill-defined, before his eyes; and the two women who came into the room, though more spectacular, were more empty and shell-like than she.
    They were not unlike, with thirty years between. They were both smallish. Lady Wallingford was gray and thin, and had something almost of arrogance in her manner. Betty was fair and thinner than, at her age, one would have thought she ought to be. She looked tired and rather wan. Her eyes, as she entered, were turned on Jonathan, and Richard thought he saw her hand drop from his. Jonathan presented him. Lady Wallingford took him, so to speak, for granted—so granted as to be unnecessary. Betty gave him a quick little glance of interest, which for the moment he did not quite understand; having forgotten that she was supposed to have known Lester. He bowed twice and stepped back a pace. Jonathan said, “You’ll have some tea first, Lady Wallingford? It’s not too warm today.”
    Lady Wallingford said, “We’ll look at the picture first. I’m anxious to see it.”
    â€œI’m very cold, Mother,” Betty said—a little