Basil went through the whole scene until the final, "Go _into_ peace" not go _in_ peace, as the logical dogmatics would have had it.
And so she, the first who had come to Him for spiritual healing, went out into the better light, and into the eternal peace of the Kingdom of Heaven.
Basil tore up the vulgar little photograph and forgot that aspect of the dancer. He remembered rather the dim figure by the font.
There was a sudden furious knocking on the outer door of the chambers, and he went to open it.
Gortre felt certain that his vicar stood without. His knocking was full of militant Christianity. The tumultuous energy of the man without communicated its own stir and disturbance to Basil's brain by the most subtle of all forms of telepathy--that "telepathy" which, in a few more years, will have its definite recipes and formulæ.
Father Ripon refused to live by any standard of measured time. He refused--so he said--to believe that a wretched little clock really knew what the great golden sun was doing. He had found it impossible to call on Gortre before this late hour, and he came regardless of it now. He wished to see Basil, and he came now with a supreme and simple carelessness of conventional time.
As usual, the worthy man was hungry, and the _débris_ of supper on the table reminded him of that. He sat down at once and began to eat rapidly, telling his story between mouthfuls.
"I bring you news of a famous opportunity," he said. "If you go to work in the right way you may win a soul. It's a poor _demi-mondaine_ creature, a dancer at the theatres. She came to me in her brougham, her furs, and finery, and had a chat in my study. I gave her tea and a cigarette--you know I always keep some cigarettes for the choir-men or teachers when they call. All these women smoke. It's a great thing to treat these people with understanding and knowledge, Gortre. Don't 'come the priest' over them, as a coster said to me last week. When they realise that one is a man, _then_ they are fifty times more willing to allow the other and more important thing.
"Well, this poor girl told me all about it, the same very sordid story one is always hearing. She is a favourite burlesque actress, and she lives very expensively in those gorgeous new flats--Bloomsbury Court. Some wealthy scoundrel pays for it all. A man 'in a very high position,' as she said with a pathetic little touch of pride which made me want to weep. Oh, my dear fellow, if the world only knew what I know! Great and honoured names in the senate, the forum, the Court, unsullied before the eyes of men. And then these hideous establishments and secret ties! This is a wicked city. The deadly lusts which war against the soul are great, powerful, and militant all around us.