values for his object. His life is almost alarmingly complete; he sleeps, and eats, and walks, simply to keep the machine in better order to subserve his mission. And yet"—and Mr. Sutcliffe sighed and looked half-humorously perplexed—"sometimes I think his ideas are all sheer moonshine, and a form of madness that may spoil one's own small bit of work for the Church in helping to reconcile the new learning of these days with the eternal truths she has to guard. At other times I feel as if he were the God-sent thinker to do that very work. I have sat listening to him and watching the singular gleam when he seems to have an eye within an eye which sees a vision not granted to others—the vision of a Church, glorious and conquering, the expression and the crown of a complete world of knowledge, where the human and the Divine clash no more even seemingly. I don't know why I should say all this, only that we are thrown together in this strange house, and I feel that you will understand. But then, Miss Fairfax, if d'Etranges is the man providentially sent to us at this moment, why has he the strange element that makes him seek out these unprincipled journalists? And why has he such an unshrinking touch when he would handle the Ark of the Lord?"
The last words were spoken in such a low voice that I could hardly hear them. It was a curious little outburst, very unlike Mr. Sutcliffe as I got to know him afterwards. Perhaps it is easier to be unreserved with an almost total stranger, than it is later on when further intimacy has revealed to us the complications that divide all minds, unless there is a special union of the heart. We were silent, and I felt a friendly glow towards the man at my side as we went slowly forwards until Marcelle overtook us.
I wish I could draw a distinct portrait of George Sutcliffe as he was then—it might make my story clearer—but there are reasons not to be given here why it is especially difficult for me to see the clear outline of such a picture.
