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.."
He broke off. Amazing to see the rapt devotion that now lighted up his
ugly face until it shone with saintly beauty. The harsh lines were
softened, the eyes were gentle, the mouth tender. "Then indeed," he almost
whispered, "I might say my 'Nunc Dimittis' and go."
It was not he alone who was stirred. Martin spoke eagerly: "Is that the
Wistons of the _Four Creeds_?--the man who wrote _The New Apocalypse_?"
Foster smiled. "There's only one Wistons," he said, pride ringing in his
voice as though he were speaking of his favourite son, "for all the
world."
"Why, that would be magnificent," Martin said, "if he'd come. But would
he? I should think that very doubtful."
"I think he would," said Foster softly, still as though he were speaking
to himself.
"Why, that, of course, is wonderful!" Martin looked round upon them all,
his eyes glowing. "There isn't a man in England----" He broke off. "But
surely if there's a _real_ chance of getting Wistons nobody on the
Chapter would dream of proposing a man like Forsyth. It's incredible!"
"Incredible!" burst in Foster.


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