insane tempest within. He smiled slightly. That was all.
As for Canon Walke, his feelings were varied. His face flickered with them in rapid alternation. He was quite conscious of the lack of life, fire, and conviction in what he himself had said. His own windy commonplaces shrank to nothingness and failure before the witnessing of the undistinguished priest. Before the two hostile intellects, the man and the woman, he had left the burden of the fight to this nobody. He was quick and jealous to mark the strength of Wilson's words, and his own failure had put him in an entirely false position. And yet a shrewd blow had been struck at Schaube and Mrs. Armstrong; there was consolation in the fact.
Father Wilson, when he had finished what he had to say, rose from his seat without more ado. "I will say a grace," he said. He made the sign of the Cross, muttered a short Latin thanksgiving, and strode from the room.
"A fanatic," said Mrs. Armstrong.
Neither Walke nor Schuabe replied.
It was getting late in the morning. The sun had risen higher and flooded the level wastes of snow without. The little party finished their meal in silence.
In the chapel Wilson knelt on the chancel step, praying that help and light might come to men and the imminent darkness pass away.
