re now before him, the
one as performer--he used the word mentally, with no thought of
irreverence--the other as audience. He could study both as he wished to
study them at that moment.

Chichester was a small, cherubic man, with blue eyes, fair hair, and neat
features, the sort of man who looks as if when a boy he must have been
the leading choir-boy in a cathedral. There was nothing powerful in his
face, but much that was amiable and winning. His chin and his forehead
were rather weak. His eyes and his mouth looked good. Or--did they?

Malling found himself wondering as Mr. Harding preached.

And was Mr. Harding the powerful preacher he was reputed to be?

At first he held his congregation. That was evident. Rows of rapt faces
gazed up at him, as he leaned over the edge of the pulpit, or stood
upright with his hands pressed palm downward upon it. But it seemed to
Malling that he held them rather because of his reputation, because of
what they confidently expected of him, because of what he had done in
the past, than because of what he was actually doing. And presently they
slipped out of his grasp. He lost them.

The first thing that is necessary in an orator, if he is to be successful
with an audience, is confidence in himself, a conviction that he has
something to say which is worth saying, which has to be said. Malling
perceived that on this Sunday morning Mr. Harding possessed neither
self-confidence nor conviction; though he made a determined, almost a
violent, effort to pretend that he had both. He took as the theme of his
discourse self-knowledge, and as his motto--so he called it---the words,
"Know thyself." This was surely a promising subject. He began to treat it
with vigor. But very soon it became evident that he was ill at ease, as
an actor becomes who cannot get into touch with his audience. He stumbled
now and then in his sentences, harked back, corrected a phrase, modified
a thought, attenuated a statement. Then, evidently bracing himself up,
almost aggressively he delivered a few passages that were eloquent
enough. But the indecision returned, became more painful. He even
contradicted himself. A "No, that is not so. I should say--" communicated
grave doubts as to his powers of clear thinking to the now confused
congregation. People began to cough and to shift about in their chairs. A
lady just beneath the pulpit unfolded a large fan and waved it slowly to
and fro. Mr. Harding paused, gazed at the f