The chapel of St. Spitz was crowded that fine Sunday morning, and
the clang and thud of its bells came merrily through the thin
quick air to worshippers arriving in their luxurious motors. The
amiable oddity of the lay reader's demeanour as priest had added
a zest to churchgoing. The congregation were particularly
pleased, on this occasion, to see Gissing appear in surplice and
stole. They had felt that his attire on the previous Sundays had
been a little too informal. And when, at the time usually
allotted to the sermon, Gissing climbed the pulpit steps,
unfurled a sheaf of manuscript, and gazed solemnly about, they
settled back into the pew cushions in a comfortable, receptive
mood. They had a subconscious feeling that if their souls were to
be saved, it was better to have it done with all the proper
formalities. They did not notice that he was rather pale, and
that his nose twitched nervously.

"My friends," he said, "in this beautiful little chapel, on this
airy hilltop, one might, if anywhere, speak with complete
honesty. For you who gather here for worship are, in the main,
people of great affairs; accustomed to looking at life with high
spirit and with quick imagination. I will ask you then to be
patient with me while I exhort you to carry into your religion
the same enterprising and ambitious gusto that has made your
worldly careers a success. You are accustomed to deal with great
affairs. Let me talk to you about the Great Affairs of God."

Gissing had been far too agitated to be able to recognize any
particular members of his audience. All the faces were fused into
a common blur. Miss Airedale, he knew, was in the organ loft, but