He went back to his table. He began hurriedly to write a
letter:
DEAR FOSTER--I cannot help feeling that I did not make myself quite
clear when I was speaking to you yesterday about Forsyth as the best
incumbent of the Pybus living. When I say best, I mean, of course, most
suitable.
When he said _best_ did he meant _most suitable? Suitable_ was
not perhaps exactly the word for Forsyth. It was something other than a
question of mere suitability. It was a keeping out of the _bad_, as
well as a bringing in of the _good_. _Suitable_ was not the word
that he wanted. What did he want? The words began to jump about on the
paper, and suddenly out of the centre of his table there stretched and
extended the figure of Miss Milton. Yes, there she was in her shabby
clothes and hat, smirking.... He dashed his hand at her and she vanished.
He sprang up. This was too bad. He must not let these fancies get hold of
him. He went into the hall.
He called out loudly, his voice echoing through the house, "Joan! Joan!"
Almost at once she came. Strange the relief that he felt! But he wouldn't
show it.
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