The sensitive Paul was aware that this was the temper of the greater part of his audience, while the lesser part would be critical, amused, or ragging undergraduates. He faced the crowd uncertainly for a few moments. And then the blinding conviction in which he had been nurtured swept down on him that, after all, these were but sinful souls needing the Saviour, their very complexity but making the more necessary His divine simplicity. Indecision went to the winds. As he wrote home later to his father, he, thereafter, "preached unto them Jesus."
When the circle broke up, a man bore down upon him. Paul saw him, started, hesitated, blushed and would have escaped. But it was too late. "Comin' back now?" queried Manning with a smile. "I was returning from calling on some people who live across the Piece, and saw you. We might as well walk back together and I'll brew some coffee. You'll want it after that effort."
Reassured to some extent, Paul thanked him, exchanged a word or two with Dick Hartley in explanation, and set off with the other. Clear of the crowd, they fell into step. "I congratulate you on your sermon, Kestern," said Manning. "It was a great effort."
Paul thought he detected a note of mockery in the words. He pulled himself together and mustered up all his courage. He must not, he told himself, be ashamed of his Master. "I spoke what I believe with all my heart," he said simply.
The senior man was instantly aware of the other's implied reproach. He slipped his arm into Paul's familiarly. "Exactly," he said. "No one with a grain of sense could doubt that. If you don't mind my saying so, it was a sincere, genuine and remarkable performance. It was, honestly, the best sermon I've heard for a long time."
Paul warmed naturally to the praise. The friendly appreciation cheered and encouraged him. "That's jolly good of you," he exclaimed boyishly. "I thought at first you were pulling my leg."
"My dear fellow, I know true art when I see it," protested Manning.
"Art?" queried Paul, bewildered.
"Yes, art. Skilful execution. A fine art, too, for your imagination was at work. And I'm inclined to think that you have a great gift of imagination, Kestern. You felt strongly, you saw vividly, and you knew instinctively how to express yourself. In the superlative, that's genius. That's how the great pictures come to be painted, the great books to be written, and the great orations to be made. The interesting thing about you is that one is not yet sure which you will do."
Paul was silent. He was at once elated, bewildered and disappointed. Gradually the humbler feeling predominated. He had never thought of himself as an artist, and as an evangelist he knew instinctively that he had failed with Manning. "The Gospel is not a work of art," he said shortly, and shrewdly.