again, and Anne
again took refuge in Thurston Square.

This time Majendie made no comment on her action. He seemed to take it
for granted.

But Anne, standing up heroically for her principle, was sustained by a
sense of moving in a divine combat. Every time she dined in Thurston
Square, she felt that she had thrown down her gage; every time that
Majendie invited Gorst, she felt that he stooped to pick it up. Thus
unconsciously she breathed hostility, and was suspicious of hostility in
him.

When she announced, at breakfast one Monday, that she had asked the
Eliotts, the Gardners, Canon Wharton, and Miss Proctor, for dinner on
Wednesday, she uttered each name as if it had been a challenge, and
looked for some irritating maneuver in response. He would, of course,
proclaim that he was going to dine with the Hannays, or he would effect
a retreat to Mr. Gorst's rooms, or to his club.

But Majendie lacked her passion and her inspiration. He simply said he
was delighted to hear it, and that he would make a point of being at
home. He would have to give up an engagement which he would not have made
if he had known. But that did not greatly matter.

They came, the Eliotts and the rest, and Miss Proctor again pronounced
him charming. To be sure, he was not half so amusing as he had been on
his first appearance in Thurston Square; but it was only becoming that
he should repress himself a little at his own table and in the presence
of the Canon. _He_, the Canon, was brilliant, if you like.

For that night the Canon was, as usual, all things to all men, and
especially to all women. He was the man of the world for Miss Proctor;
the fine epicure of books for Mrs. Eliott; for Mr. Eliott and Dr.
Gardner, the broad-minded searcher and enthusiast, the humble
camp-follower of the conquering sciences. "You are the pioneers,"
said he; "you go before us on the march. But we keep up, we keep up.
We can step out--cassock and all."

But he spread out all his spiritual lures for Mrs. Majendie. His eyes
seemed more than ever to pursue her, to search her, to be gazing
discreetly at the secret of her soul. They drew her with the clear and
candid flattery of their understanding. She could feel the clever little
Canon taking her in and making notes on her. "Sensitive. Unhappy.
Intensely spiritual nature. Too fine and pure for _him_." And over the
unhallowed, half-abandoned table, flushed slightly with Majendie's good
wine, the Canon drew up hi