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The enforcement of such a livery would act as a wholesome deterrent to those intending to enter the Church. At the same time it would enormously enhance, what Archbishop Laud so rightly insisted on, the “beauty of holiness” in the few incorrigibles who could not be deterred.’
    â€˜In hell, it seems,’ said Priscilla, reading in her Sunday paper, ‘the children amuse themselves by flaying lambs alive.’
    â€˜Ah, but, dear lady, that’s only a symbol,’ exclaimed Mr Barbecue-Smith, ‘a material symbol of a h-piritual truth. Lambs signify . . .’
    â€˜Then there are military uniforms,’ Mr Scogan went on. ‘When scarlet and pipeclay were abandoned for khaki, there were some who trembled for the future of war. But then, finding how elegant the new tunic was, how closely it clipped the waist, how voluptuously, with the lateral bustles of the pockets, it exaggerated the hips; when they realized the brilliant potentialities of breeches and top-boots, they were reassured. Abolish these military elegances, standardize a uniform of sack-cloth and mackintosh, you will very soon find that . . .’
    â€˜Is anyone coming to church with me this morning?’ asked Henry Wimbush. No one responded. He baited his bare invitation. ‘I read the lessons, you know. And there’s Mr Bodiham. His sermons are sometimes worth hearing.’
    â€˜Thank you, thank you,’ said Mr Barbecue-Smith. ‘I for one prefer to worship in the infinite church of Nature. How does our Shakespeare put it? “Sermons in books, stones in the running brooks.”’ He waved his arm in a fine gesture towards the window, and even as he did so he became vaguely, but none the less insistently, none the less uncomfortably aware that something had gone wrong with the quotation. Something – what could it be? Sermons? Stones? Books?

CHAPTER IX
    MR BODIHAM WAS sitting in his study at the Rectory. The nineteenth-century Gothic windows, narrow and pointed, admitted the light grudgingly; in spite of the brilliant July weather, the room was sombre. Brown varnished bookshelves lined the walls, filled with row upon row of those thick, heavy theological works which the second-hand booksellers generally sell by weight. The mantelpiece, the overmantel, a towering structure of spindly pillars and little shelves, were brown and varnished. The writing-desk was brown and varnished. So were the chairs, so was the door. A dark red-brown carpet with patterns covered the floor. Everything was brown in the room, and there was a curious brownish smell.
    In the midst of this brown gloom Mr Bodiham sat at his desk. He was the man in the Iron Mask. A grey metallic face with iron cheek-bones and a narrow iron brow; iron folds, hard and unchanging, ran perpendicularly down his cheeks; his nose was the iron beak of some thin, delicate bird of rapine. He had brown eyes, set in sockets rimmed with iron; round them the skin was dark, as though it had been charred. Dense wiry hair covered his skull; it had been black, it was turning grey. His ears were very small and fine. His jaws, his chin, his upper lip were dark, iron-dark, where he had shaved. His voice, when he spoke and especially when he raised it in preaching, was harsh, like the grating of iron hinges when a seldom-used door is opened.
    It was nearly half-past twelve. He had just come back from church, hoarse and weary with preaching. He preached with fury, with passion, an iron man beating with a flail upon the souls of his congregation. But the souls of the faithful at Crome were made of india-rubber, solid rubber; the flail rebounded. They were used to Mr Bodiham at Crome. The flail thumped on india-rubber, and as often as not the rubber slept.
    That morning he had preached, as he had often preached before, on the nature of God. He had tried to make them understand about God, what a fearful thing it is to fall intoHis hands. God – they thought of