enediction. These were the
supreme moments of his life.

Once a month, kneeling at the same altar rails, he received the bread
and wine from the hands of his ritualistic curate, Mr. Grierson.

It was his uttermost abasement.

But, whether he was abased or exalted, the parish was proud of
its Vicar. He had shown grit. His parishioners respected the
indestructible instinct that had made him hold on.

* * * * *

For Mr. Cartaret was better, incredibly better. He could creep about
the house and the village without any help but his stick. He could
wash and feed and dress himself. He had no longer any use for his
wheel-chair. Once a week, on a Wednesday, he was driven over his
parish in an ancient pony carriage of Peacock's. It was low enough for
him to haul himself in and out.

And he had recovered large tracts of memory, all, apparently, but
the one spot submerged in the catastrophe that had brought about his
stroke. He was aware of events and of their couplings and of their
sequences in time, though the origin of some things was not clear
to him. Thus he knew that Alice was married and living at Upthorne,
though he had forgotten why. That she should have married Greatorex
was a strange thing, and he couldn't think how it had happened. He
supposed it must have happened when he was laid aside, for he would
never have permitted it if he had known. Mary's marriage also puzzled
him, for he had a most distinct idea that it was Gwenda who was to
have married Rowcliffe, and he said so. But he would own humbly that
he might be mistaken, his memory not being what it was.

He had settled more or less into his state of gentleness and
submission, broken from time to time by fits of violent irritation and
relieved by pride, pride in his feats of independence, his comings and
goings, his washing, his dressing and undressing of himself. Sometimes
this pride was stubborn and insistent; sometimes it was sweet and
joyous as a child's. His mouth, relaxed forever by his stroke, had
acquired a smile of piteous and appealing innocence. It smiled upon
the just and upon the unjust. It smiled even on Greatorex, whom
socially he disapproved of (he took care to let it be known that he
disapproved of Greatorex socially), though he tolerated him.

He tolerated all persons except one. And that one was the ritualistic
curate, Mr. Grierson.

He had every reason for not tolerating him. Not only was Mr.
Grierson a