Richard's Sabbaths had become days of dismal¹ torpor². A year ago, on first arriving in London, he had projected a series of visits to churches famous either for architectural beauty or for picturesque³ ritual. A few weeks, however, had brought tedium⁴. He was fundamentally irreligious, and his churchgoing proceeded from a craving⁵, purely⁶ sensuous⁷, which sought gratification in ceremonial pomps, twilight⁸ atmospheres heavy with incense⁹ and electric with devotion, and dim perspectives of arching stone. But these things he soon discovered lost their fine savour by the mere¹⁰ presence of a prim¹¹ congregation secure in the brass¹² armour¹³ of self-complacency; for him the worship was spoilt by the worshippers, and so the time came when the only church which he cared to attend—and even to this he went but infrequently, lest use should stale its charm—was the Roman Catholic oratory¹⁴ of St. Philip Neri, where, at mass, the separation of the sexes struck a grateful note of austerity, and the mean appearance of the people contrasted admirably with the splendour of the priests' vestments, the elaborate music, and the

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