Ladies looked about them. Ellen Stiles saw Miss
Dobell--smile, smile. Joan saw Cynthia Ryle--smile, smile. Lawrence, with
the expression of the Angel Gabriel waiting to admit into heaven a new
troop of repentant sinners, stood expectant. The sun filtered in dusty
ladders of coloured light and fell in squares upon the empty spaces of the
nave.
The bell suddenly ceased, a long melodious and melancholy "Amen" came from
somewhere far away in the purple shadow. Every one moved; a noise like a
little uncertain breeze blew through the Cathedral as the congregation
rose; then the choir filed through, the boys, the men, the Precentor, old
Canon Morphew and older Canon Batholomew, Canon Rogers, his face bitter
and discontented, Canon Foster, Bentinck-Major, last of all, Archdeacon
Brandon. They had filed into their places in the choir, they were
kneeling, the Precentor's voice rang out....
The familiar sound of Canon Ryle's voice recalled Mrs. Brandon to time and
place. She was kneeling, her gloved hands pressed close to her face. She
was looking into thick dense darkness, a darkness penetrated with the
strong scent of Russia leather and the faint musty smell that always
seemed to rise from the Cathedral hassocks and the woodwork upon which she
leant.
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