hand in return, and said sadly, with a world of meaning—
"No! I will not come in! I will leave you to Those Voices of the Great Peace!"
Then it was that Professor Higginson noticed, standing in the mean little hall humbly enough, a mean little man, short, wearing a threadbare coat, and a drenched bowler hat.
"Professor Higginson," said this apparition gently, "Professor Higginson, I presume?"
"What?" snapped the Professor, still holding the Parson's hand, like the handle of a pump.
"May I see you a moment? I represent The Sunday Machine."
"No," thundered Professor Higginson, dropping the reverend hand in his excitement. "I 'm tired, it 's not lunch time yet, I don't know what you mean!"
The little man was at once flabbergasted and hurt. The Reverend Charles smiled a cadaverous smile, but one as luminous as his eyes.
"May I supply the place?" he said in a voice that was musical in two tones.
He stood there winningly in the open doorway with his dripping umbrella and
