There was a half-suppressed titter from the wall at the back, where Lord Robert Ure was standing with his face screwed up to his eyeglass.
“Well, if the name of our Lord is a stumbling block to our Unitarian, brother, no doubt the prayer in this instance would be acceptable without the customary Christian benediction.”
“That's just like you,” said a large man near the door, with whiskers all round his face. “You've been trimming all your life, and now you are going to trim away the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.”
“If our Low-Church brother thinks he can do better——”
But John Storm intervened. He had looked icy cold, though the twitching of his lower lip showed that he was red hot within.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a quavering voice, “I apologize for bringing you together. I thought if we were in earnest about the union of Christendom we might at least unite in the real contest with evil. But I find it is a dream; we have only been trifling with ourselves, and there is not one of us who wants the union of Christendom, except on the condition that his rod shall be like Aaron's rod which swallowed up all the rest. It was a mistake, and I beg your pardon.”
“Yes, sir,” said the Archdeacon, “it was a mistake; and if you had taken my advice from the first, and asked the blessing of God through good High Churchmen alone——”
“God doesn't wait for any asking,” said John, now flushing up to the eyes. “He gives freely to High Churchmen, Low Churchmen, and No Churchmen alike.”
“If that is your opinion, sir, you are no better than some of your friends, and for my part I will never darken your door again!”
“Darken is a good word for it, Archdeacon,” said John, and with that the company broke up.