liberately intelligent, but by
no means sympathetic. He looked away from it to Guildea, who was
smoking, with his head thrown back, his sharp, pointed chin, on which
the small black beard bristled, upturned. He was moving his under lip up
and down rapidly. This action caused the beard to stir and look
peculiarly aggressive. The Father suddenly chuckled softly.

"Why's that?" cried Guildea, letting his chin drop down on his breast
and looking at his guest sharply.

"I was thinking it would have to be a crisis indeed that could make you
cling to your butler's affection for assistance."

Guildea smiled too.

"You're right. It would. Here he comes."

The man entered with coffee. He offered it gently, and retired like a
shadow retreating on a wall.

"Splendid, inhuman fellow," remarked Guildea.

"I prefer the East End lad who does my errands in Bird Street," said the
Father. "I know all his worries. He knows some of mine. We are friends.
He's more noisy than your man. He even breathes hard when he is
specially solicitous, but he would do more for me than put the coals on
my fire, or black my square-toed boots."

"Men are differently made. To me the watchful eye of affection would be
abominable."

"What about that bird?"

The Father pointed to the parrot. It had got up on its perch and, with
one foot uplifted in an impressive, almost benedictory, manner, was
gazing steadily at the Professor.

"That's the watchful eye of imitation, with a mind at the back of it,
desirous of reproducing the peculiarities of others. No, I thought your
sermon to-night very fresh, very clever. But I have no wish for
affection. Reasonable liking, of course, one desires," he tugged sharply
at his beard, as if to warn himself against sentimentality,--"but
anything more would be most irksome, and would push me, I feel sure,
towards cruelty. It would also hamper one's work."

"I don't think so."

"The sort of work I do. I shall continue to benefit the world without
loving it, and it will continue to accept the benefits without loving
me. That's all as it should be."

He drank his coffee. Then he added, rather aggressively:

"I have neither time nor inclination for sentimentality."

When Guildea let Father Murchison out, he followed the Father on to the
doorstep and stood there for a moment. The Father glanced across the
damp road into the Park.

"I see you've got a gate just opposite you," he said idly.

"Yes. I often slip acros