No, he
was real, March Square was real, Polchester was real, Glebeshire and
London were real together--nothing died, nothing passed away.
On the second afternoon of his stay he was standing in the Close, bathed
now in yellow sunlight, when he saw coming towards him a familiar
figure. One glance was enough to assure him that this was the Rev.
William Lasher, once Vicar of Clinton St. Mary, now Canon of Polchester
Cathedral. Mr. Lasher it was, and Mr. Lasher the same as he had ever
been. He was walking with his old energetic stride, his head up, his
black overcoat flapping behind him, his eyes sharply investigating in
and out and all round him. He saw Seymour, but did not recognise him,
and would have passed on.
"You don't know me?" said Seymour, holding out his hand.
"I beg your pardon, I----" said Canon Lasher.
"Seymour--Hugh Seymour--whom you were once kind enough to look after at
Clinton St. Mary."
"Why! Fancy! Indeed. My dear boy. My dear boy!" Mr. Lasher was immensely
cordial in exactly his old, healthy, direct manner. He insisted that
Seymour should come with him and drink a cup of tea.
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