r the usual type of debate on such a subject as viewed in
South African Church circles, the request was granted.

Now it happened that Mr. Conyers Smythe, the most prosperous man
in the whole community, was not present at that Committee
meeting. He was a Master of Arts of a South African University,
and a real scholar, not a mere qualifier. He was, moreover, both
sufficiently educated to understand the irony of a critical
friend, and habitually inclined to resent it. He spoke fierily to
certain of his intimates when the Bishop's speech was reported to
him. He went to see him himself next day in the evening time.

His host came and sat with him on the stoep, lighted the lamp to
show him a new book of his, and gave him coffee and a cigar. The
hour was about half-past seven, and the week was Christmas week.
There was a new moon of very dim silver in the West looking
through the rose trellis upon them, and masses of inflammatory
cloud were heaped about her. The host looked at the guest
meditatively as he lighted his pipe.

The guest was fair-haired and well-featured, as well as
magnificently built; but his deep color was not exactly the hue
of health. His eyes had been glowing when he had first come on
the scene, prepared to open battle. But when his host masterfully
gained an armistice they became dull and rather worn eyes, that
seemed not to be seeing good days somehow.

Their possessor only grew eager by flashes now and again as the
Bishop showed him a second new book one that they both deemed
highly delectable turning the passages and discussing various
phases of its general subject the cults of the Greek States.

They had come together, these two, in a very tiny and remote city
each an enthusiast as to this same by-path of erudition.

It was not until he had shown his guest the road on to a large
extent of commonage--commonage of mutual delight that the Bishop
led the way to a spot therein convenient for the desired
engagement. He began to discuss the relations of Xanthos, the
fair god, and Melanthos, the dark god, in Hellenic society.

'That's the trouble here,' he said. 'I hope you won't draw the
line even at my leper windows. They may at least ease the
isolation of our two cults here. I find established so to speak
in this Christian city the cult of Xanthos, tribal god of the
fair-skins at the Cathedral, or for the present the Pro-Cathedral.
Also I find the cult of Melanthos multiplying itself at the tin
t