ngs that really count, Reed had felt his old-time
interest grow and quicken. It had caused him no especial surprise,
then, when a letter from his father had brought him news of the rector
of Saint Peter's. Neither had it caused him any more surprise when his
father's later letters recorded bit by bit the intimacy slowly growing
up between the scholarly young rector and his father's critical self.
Instead, Reed took a certain comfort in reflecting that he had foreseen
it all along. However, he had felt an undeniable curiosity to see the
shabby, under-nourished Scott Brenton, a thing of shambling feet and
knobbly joints, transmogrified into the well-groomed, easy-mannered
type of rector which had become traditional at Saint Peter's.

Nevertheless, now that he was at home once more and, to all seeming,
candidate for churchly ministrations, Reed found he drew back a little
from their meeting. At the start, even though his bodily strength
allowed it, his nervous energy shrank from the ordeal of seeing people.
It seemed to him that there would be so many things he ought to explain
to them to make his position clear. Of course, with his family and the
Keltridges and even the despised Dolph Dennison, it was different,
although even the irresponsible Dolph had floundered and struck bottom
on a conversational reef or two, and it had taken all Reed's grip to
haul him off and steer him into deep waters and consequent safety.

Left to himself and thinking the matter over at his leisure, Reed
admitted, with an impersonal candour, that it was very easy for his
guests to err in tact. A man in his predicament was bound to be a
trifle flooring; it did not affect the question in the least that he
was in no wise responsible for the predicament. It had resulted, quite
simply, from his natural instincts, not from any conscious thirsting
for fame and for consequent Carnegie medals. However, the average
visitor could not be expected to be aware of that; and therefore he
would be more than likely to feel it incumbent upon him to say gracious
things in a tremulous falsetto voice. In the present case, the question
concerned itself with the problem whether or not Scott Brenton would
prove to be the average visitor.

When at last Brenton came, he proved himself to be quite apart from the
average. He neither floundered, nor did he err in tact. He even forgot
about any proper greetings, so promptly did he fling himself into a
tide of reminiscent go