BETWEEN the young man of immaculate vesture, of impeccable manners, of undeniable culture, of instinctive sympathy with the great world where great things are done, of unerring tact, of mythological beauty and charm, of boundless ambition, of resistless energy, of incalculable promise, in outer semblance and in avowed creed the fine flower of aristocratic England, professing the divine right of the House of Lords and the utilitarian sanctity of the Church of England--between Paul, that is to say, and the Radical, progressive councillor of Hickney Heath, the Free Zionist dissenter (not even Congregationalist or Baptist or Wesleyan, or any powerfully organized Non-conformist whose conscience archbishops consult with astute patronage), the purveyor of fried fish, the man of crude, uncultivated taste, there should have been a gulf fixed as wide as the Pacific Ocean.

As a matter of fact, whatever gulf lay between them was narrow enough to be bridged comfortably over by mutual esteem.

Paul took to visiting Mr.Finn.
Accustomed to the somewhat tired or conventional creeds of his political world, he found refreshment in the man's intense faith.

He also found pathetic attraction in the man's efforts towards self-expression.

Mr.Finn, who lived a life of great loneliness--scarcely a soul, said Jane, crossed his threshold from month's end to month's end--seemed delighted to have a sympathetic visitor to whom he could display his painted treasures.