d marry you--perhaps, if you would (I can hardly speak of
it now I know you would)--and--and--oh, I don't know--make a name in the
Church, I suppose. Well, and I hope we shall one day, but now this has
come along. I really feel all I said this morning, awfully. I shall go
out--I must. The men must be helped; one can't sit still and imagine them
dying, wounded, tempted, and without a priest. It's a supreme chance. We
shall be fighting for honour and truth, and the Church must be there to
bear her witness and speak her message. There will be no end to do. And
it is a chance of a lifetime to get into touch with the men, and
understand them. You do see that, don't you? And, besides--forgive me,
but I must put it so--if _He_ had compassion on the multitude, ought we
not to have too? _He_ showed it by death; ought we to fear even that
too?"

The girl stole out a hand, and his gripped it hard. Then she remembered
the conventions and pulled it away, and sat a little more upright. She
was extraordinarily conscious of herself, and she felt as if she had two
selves that day. One was Hilda Lessing, a girl she knew quite well, a
well-trained person who understood life, and the business of society and
of getting married, quite correctly; and the other was somebody she did
not know at all, that could not reason, and who felt naked and ashamed.
It was inexplicable, but it was so. That second self was listening to
heroics and even talking them, and surely heroics were a little out of
date.

She looked across a wide green space, and saw, through the distant trees,
the procession of the church parade. She felt as if she ought to be
there, and half unconsciously glanced at her dress. A couple of terriers
ran scurrying across the grass, and a seat-ticket man came round the
corner. Behind them a taxi hooted, and some sparrows broke out into a
noisy chatter in a bush. And here was Peter talking of death, and the
Cross--and out of church, too.

She gave a little shudder, and glanced at a wrist-watch. "Peter," she
said, "we must go. Dear, for my sake, do think it over. Wait a little,
and see what happens. I quite understand your point of view, but you must
think of others--even your Vicar, my parents, and of me. And Peter, shall
we say anything about our--our love? What do you think?"

Peter Graham looked at her steadily, and as she spoke he, too, felt the
contrast between his thoughts and ordinary life. The London curate was
himself again.