know not. Shall I collect the thoughts of the assembly by a brief introductory address in the interval?"
"No, no, no," said Mr Wace, who saw a limit to his powers of endurance. "Mr Sherlock is sure to be here in a minute or two."
"Christian," said Philip Debarry, who felt a slight misgiving, "just be so good — but stay, I'll go myself. Excuse me, gentlemen; I'll drive round to Mr Sherlock's lodgings. He may be under a little mistake as to the time. Studious men are sometimes rather absent. You needn't come with me. Christian."
As Mr Debarry went out, Rufus Lyon stepped on to the tribune again in rather an uneasy state of mind. A few ideas had occurred to him, eminently fitted to engage the audience profitably, and so to wrest some edification out of an unforeseen delay. But his native delicacy made him feel that in this assembly the Church people might fairly decline any "deliverance" on his part which exceeded the programme, and Mr Wace's negative had been energetic. But the little man suffered from imprisoned ideas, and was as restless as a racer held in. He could not sit down again, but walked backwards and forwards, stroking his chin, emitting
