rtrait, but the hard handsome
face with its bold eyes, was distinctly visible. He was looking lazily
watchful, listening sardonically to the conversation about himself.

"I admire the artist who painted his portrait," said May.

"Yes, the artist knew what he was doing when he painted Langley," said
the Warden. He seemed now to have recovered his ease, and stood leaning
his arms on the back of the chair he had vacated. "Your idea is a good
one," he went on. "I don't suppose it has occurred to any Warden since
Langley's time that a frank and pleasant apology might lay the Barber's
ghost for ever. Shall I try it?" he asked, looking at his guest.

"My dear," said Lady Dashwood slowly, "I wish you wouldn't even joke
about it--I dislike it. I wish people wouldn't invent ghost stories,"
she went on. "They are silly, and they are often mischievous. I wish you
wouldn't talk as if you believed it."

"It was you, Lena, who brought up the subject," said Middleton. "But I
won't talk about him if you dislike it. You know that I am not a
believer in ghosts."

Lady Dashwood nodded her head approvingly, and began turning more pages
of her book.

"I sometimes wonder," said the Warden, and now he turned his face
towards May Dashwood--"I wonder if men like Langley really believed in a
future life?"

May looked up at the portrait, but was silent.

"The eighteenth century was not tormented with the question as we are
now!" said the Warden, and again he looked at the auburn head and the
dark lashes hiding the downcast eyes. "Those who doubt," he said slowly
and tentatively, "whether after all the High Gods want us--those who
doubt whether there are High Gods--even those doubt with regret--now."
He waited for a response and May Dashwood suddenly raised her eyes to
his.

"There is no truculence in modern unbelief," he said, "it is a matter of
passionate regret. And belief has become a passionate hope."

Lady Dashwood knew that not a word of this was meant for her. She
disliked all talk about the future world. It made her feel dismal. Her
life had been spent in managing first her father, then her brother, and
now her husband, and incidentally many of her friends.

Some people dislike having plans made for them, some endure it, some
positively like it, and for those who liked it, Lady Dashwood made
extensive plans. Her brain worked now almost automatically in plans. For
herself she had no plans, she was the planner. But her plans wer