Foster shook his head. "Have it your own way," he said. "Everything's the same here--always compromise. Compromise! Compromise! I'm sick of the cowardly word. We'll say no more of Brandon for the moment then. He'll come up again, never fear. He's not the sort of man to avoid spoiling his own soup."
"Very good," said Bentinck-Major in his most patronising manner. "Now we are all agreed, I think. You will have noticed that I've been waiting for this moment to suggest that we should come to business. Our business, I believe, is to obtain what support we can against the gift of the living to Mr. Forsyth and to suggest some other candidate...hum, haw...yes, other candidate."
"There's only one possible candidate," Foster brought out, banging his lean fist down upon the table near to him. "And that's Wistons of Hawston. It's been the wish of my heart for years back to bring Wistons here. We don't know, of course, if he would come, but I think he could be persuaded. And then--then there'd be hope once more! God would be served! His Church would be a fitting Tabernacle!..."
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. "Not a bit of it! Do you suppose Brandon--I beg pardon for mentioning his name, as we're all so particular--do you suppose Brandon wouldn't fight just such a man? He regards him as dangerous, modern, subversive, heretical, anything you please. Wistons! Why, he'd make Brandon's hair stand on end!"