His emotions seemed to have been finally extinguished in the vision of the white car and the silence of the crowd that evening three weeks before.
It had been so horribly real and positive; the delicate aspirations and hopes of the soul appeared so shadowy when compared with that burning, heart-shaking passion of the people.

He had never seen anything like it; no congregation under the spell of the most kindling preacher alive had ever responded with one-tenth of the fervour with which that irreligious crowd, standing in the cold dawn of the London streets, had greeted the coming of their saviour.

And as for the man himself--Percy could not analyse what it was that possessed him as he had stared, muttering the name of Jesus, on that quiet figure in black with features and hair so like his own.

He only knew that a hand had gripped his heart--a hand warm, not cold--and had quenched, it seemed, all sense of religious conviction.

It had only been with an effort that sickened him to remember, that he had refrained from that interior act of capitulation that is so familiar to all who have cultivated an inner life and understand what failure means.