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unrighteous whom God's wrath has destroyed。 Be ready； then； the
coming of the Lord is at hand。 May it be for all of you an object of hope；
not a moment to look forward to with terror and trembling。〃
Mr。 Bodiham closed the little pamphlet and leaned back in his chair。
The argument was sound； absolutely compelling； and yet it was four
years since he had preached that sermon； four years； and England was at
peace； the sun shone； the people of Crome were as wicked and indifferent
as evermore so； indeed； if that were possible。 If only he could
understand； if the heavens would but make a sign！ But his questionings
remained unanswered。 Seated there in his brown varnished chair under
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the Ruskinian window； he could have screamed aloud。 He gripped the
arms of his chair gripping； gripping for control。 The knuckles of his
hands whitened； he bit his lip。 In a few seconds he was able to relax the
tension； he began to rebuke himself for his rebellious impatience。
Four years； he reflected； what were four years； after all？ It must
inevitably take a long time for Armageddon to ripen to yeast itself up。
The episode of 1914 had been a preliminary skirmish。 And as for the war
having come to an endwhy； that； of course； was illusory。 It was still
going on； smouldering away in Silesia； in Ireland； in Anatolia； the
discontent in Egypt and India was preparing the way； perhaps； for a great
extension of the slaughter among the heathen peoples。 The Chinese
boycott of Japan； and the rivalries of that country and America in the
Pacific； might be breeding a great new war in the East。 The prospect； Mr。
Bodiham tried to assure himself； was hopeful； the real； the genuine
Armageddon might soon begin； and then； like a thief in the night。。。But； in
spite of all his comfortable reasoning； he remained unhappy； dissatisfied。
Four years ago he had been so confident； God's intention seemed then so
plain。 And now？ Now； he did well to be angry。 And now he suffered
too。
Sudden and silent as a phantom Mrs。 Bodiham appeared； gliding
noiselessly across the room。 Above her black dress her face was pale
with an opaque whiteness； her eyes were pale as water in a glass； and her
strawy hair was almost colourless。 She held a large envelope in her
hand。
〃This came for you by the post；〃 she said softly。
The envelope was unsealed。 Mechanically Mr。 Bodiham tore it open。
It contained a pamphlet； larger than his own and more elegant in
appearance。 〃The House of Sheeny； Clerical Outfitters； Birmingham。〃
He turned over the pages。 The catalogue was tastefully and
ecclesiastically printed in antique characters with illuminated Gothic
initials。 Red marginal lines； crossed at the corners after the manner of an
Oxford picture frame； enclosed each page of type； little red crosses took
the place of full stops。 Mr。 Bodiham turned the pages。
〃Soutane in best black merino。 Ready to wear； in all sizes。
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Clerical frock coats。 From nine guineas。 A dressy garment； tailored
by our own experienced ecclesiastical cutters。〃
Half…tone illustrations represented young curates； some dapper； some
Rugbeian and muscular； some with ascetic faces and large ecstatic eyes；
dressed in jackets； in frock…coats； in surplices； in clerical evening dress； in
black Norfolk suitings。
〃A large assortment of chasubles。
Rope girdles。
Sheeny's Special Skirt Cassocks。 Tied by a string about the
waist。。。When worn under a surplice presents an appearance
indistinguishable from that of a complete cassock。。。Recommended for
summer wear and hot climates。〃
With a gesture of horror and disgust Mr。 Bodiham threw the catalogue
into the waste…paper basket。 Mrs。 Bodiham looked at him； her pale；
glaucous eyes reflected his action without comment。
〃The village；〃 she said in her quiet voice； 〃the village grows worse and
worse every day。〃
〃What has happened now？〃 asked Mr。 Bodiham； feeling suddenly very
weary。
〃I'll tell you。〃 She pulled up a brown varnished chair and sat down。
In the village of Crome； it seemed； Sodom and Gomorrah had come to a
second birth。
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CHAPTER X。
Denis did not dance； but when ragtime came squirting out of the
pianola in gushes of treacle and hot perfume； in jets of Bengal light； then
things began to dance inside him。 Little black nigger corpuscles jigged
and drummed in his arteries。 He became a cage of movement； a walking
palais de danse。 It was very uncomfortable； like the preliminary
symptoms of a disease。 He sat in one of the window…seats； glumly
pretending to read。
At the pianola； Henry Wimbush； smoking a long cigar through a
tunnelled pillar of amber； trod out the shattering dance music with serene
patience。 Locked together； Gombauld and Anne moved with a
harmoniousness that made them seem a single creature； two… headed and
four…legged。 Mr。 Scogan； solemnly buffoonish； shuffled round the room
with Mary。 Jenny sat in the shadow behind the piano； scribbling； so it
seemed； in a big red notebook。 In arm…chairs by the fireplace； Priscilla
and Mr。 Barbecue…Smith discussed higher things； without； apparently；
being disturbed by the noise on the Lower Plane。
〃Optimism；〃 said Mr。 Barbecue…Smith with a tone of finality； speaking
through strains of the 〃Wild； Wild Women〃〃optimism is the opening out
of the soul towards the light； it is an expansion towards and into God； it is
a h…piritual self…unification with the Infinite。〃
〃How true！〃 sighed Priscilla； nodding the baleful splendours of her
coiffure。
〃Pessimism； on the other hand； is the contraction of the soul towards
darkness； it is a focusing of the self upon a po