saw the girl mechanically loosen the clasp of the
thin dust cloak over her white dress.

"You sent for him, mother?" snapped the man, with a tremble in his
voice, and with a sudden jerk forward of his whole body. But the girl
put out her hand.

"Quietly, my dear," she said. "Now, sir---"

"Yes, I am a priest," said Percy again, strung up now to a desperate
resistance of will, hardly knowing what he said.

"And you come to my house!" exclaimed the man. He came a step nearer,
and half recoiled. "You swear you are a priest?" he said. "You have been
here all this evening?"

"Since midnight."

"And you are not---" he stopped again.

Mabel stepped straight between them.

"Oliver," she said, still with that air of suppressed excitement, "we
must not have a scene here. The poor dear is too ill. Will you come
downstairs, sir?"

Percy took a step towards the door, and Oliver moved slightly aside.
Then the priest stopped, turned and lifted his hand.

"God bless you!" he said simply, to the muttering figure in the bed.
Then he went out, and waited outside the door.

He could hear a low talking within; then a compassionate murmur from the
girl's voice; then Oliver was beside him, trembling all over, as white
as ashes, and made a silent gesture as he went past him down the stairs.

* * * * *

The whole thing seemed to Percy like some incredible dream; it was all
so unexpected, so untrue to life. He felt conscious of an enormous shame
at the sordidness of the affair, and at the same time of a kind of
hopeless recklessness. The worst had happened and the best--that was his
sole comfort.

Oliver pushed a door open, touched a button, and went through into the
suddenly lit room, followed by Percy. Still in silence, he pointed to a
chair, Percy sat down, and Oliver stood before the fireplace, his hands
deep in the pockets of his jacket, slightly turned away.

Percy's concentrated senses became aware of every detail of the
room--the deep springy green carpet, smooth under his feet, the straight
hanging thin silk curtains, the half-dozen low tables with a wealth of
flowers upon them, and the books that lined the walls. The whole room
was heavy with the scent of roses, although the windows were wide, and
the night-breeze stirred the curtains continually. It was a woman's
room, he told himself. Then he looked at the man's figure, lithe, tense,
upright; the dark grey suit not unlike his own, the beautiful curve of
the jaw,