Father Moran came to discuss the business of the parish with him and
insisted on relieving Father Oliver of a great deal of it, saying that
he wanted a rest, and he often urged Father Oliver to go away for a
holiday. He was kind, but his talk was wearisome, and Father Oliver
thought he would prefer to read about the fabulous Rowena than to hear
any more about the Archbishop. But when Father Moran left Rowena bored
him, and so completely that he could not remember at what point he had
left off reading, and his thoughts wandered from the tournament to some
phrase he had made use of in writing to Nora, or, it might be, some
phrase of hers that would suddenly spring into his mind. He sought no
longer to discover her character from her letters, nor did he criticize
the many contradictions which had perplexed him: it seemed to him that
he accepted her now, as the phrase goes, 'as she was,' thinking of her
as he might of some supernatural being whom he had offended, and who had
revenged herself. Her wickedness became in his eyes an added grace, and
from the rack on which he lay he admired his executioner. Even her
liking for Mr. Poole became submerged in a tide of suffering, and of
longing, and weakness of spirit. He no longer had any strength to
question her liking for the minor prophets: there were discrepancies in
everyone, and no doubt there were in him as well as in her. He had once
been very different from what he was to-day. Once he was an ardent
student in Maynooth, he had been an energetic curate; and now what was
he? Worse still, what was he becoming? And he allowed his thoughts to
dwell on the fact that every day she was receding from him. He, too, was
receding. All things were receding--becoming dimmer.

He piled the grate up with turf, and when the blaze came leaned over it,
warming his hands, asking himself why she liked Mr. Poole rather than
him. For he no longer tried to conceal from himself the fact that he
loved her. He had played the hypocrite long enough; he had spoken about
her soul, but it was herself that he wanted. This admission brought some
little relief, but he felt that the relief would only be temporary.
Alas! it was surrender. It was worse than surrender--it was abandonment.
He could sink no deeper. But he could; we can all sink deeper. Now what
would the end be? There is an end to everything; there must be an end
even to humiliation, to self-abasement. It was Moran over again. Moran
was ashamed of