Ibsen thinks he is a Great Teacher, and Maeterlinck a new Shakespeare. I've just been reading all about it—in Nordau. No doubt his odd deformity gave him an idea…"
"But really," began the Vicar.
"No doubt he's slipped away from confinement."
"I do not altogether accept…"
"You will. If not, there's the police, and failing that, advertisement; but of course his people may want to hush it up. It's a sad thing in a family…"
"He seems so altogether…"
"Probably you'll hear from his friends in a day or so," said the Doctor, feeling for his watch. "He can't live far from here, I should think. He seems harmless enough. I must come along and see that wing again to-morrow." He slid off the hall table and stood up.
"Those old wives' tales still have their hold on you," he said, patting the Vicar on the shoulder. "But an Angel, you know——— Ha, ha!"
"I certainly did think…" said the Vicar dubiously.
"Weigh the evidence," said the Doctor, still fumbling at his watch. "Weigh the evidence with our instruments of precision. What does it leave you? Splashes of colour, spots of fancy—muscæ volantes."
"And yet," said the Vicar, "I could almost swear to the glory on his wings…"
"Think it over," said the Doctor (watch out); "hot afternoon—brilliant sunshine—boiling down on your head… But really I must be going. It is
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