sh to tear it from
them?"

"I think we should live by the truth, and I would gladly strike away a
lie from any human being who was using it as a crutch."

"_I_ thought that once," said Chichester.

The words were ordinary enough, but there was something either in the
way they were said, or in Chichester's face as he said them, that made
Malling turn cold.

To cover his unusual emotion, which he was ashamed of, and which he
greatly desired to hide from his companion, he blew out a puff of cigar
smoke, lifted his cup, and drank the rest of his coffee.

"May I have another cup?" he said. "It's excellent."

The coffee-pot was on the table. Chichester poured out some more.

"I will have another cup, too," he said. "How it wakes up the mind."

He glanced at Mailing and added:

"Almost terribly sometimes."

"Yes. But--going back to our subject--don't you still think that men
should live by the truth?"

"I think," began Chichester--"I think--"

It seemed as if something physical prevented him from continuing. He
swallowed, as if forcing something down his throat.

"I think," he got out at last, "that few men know how terrible the face
of truth can be."

His own countenance was contorted as he spoke, as if he were regarding
something frightful.

"I think"--he turned right round in his chair to confront Malling
squarely--"that _you_ do not know."

For the first time he completely dominated Malling, Chichester the
gentle, cherubic clergyman, whom Malling had thought of as good, but
weak, and certainly as a negligible quantity. He dominated, because at
that moment he made Malling feel as if he had some great possession of
knowledge which Malling lacked.

"And you?" said Malling. "Do you know?"

The curate's lips worked, but he made no answer.

Malling was aware of a great struggle in his mind, as of a combat in
which two forces were engaged. He got up, walked to the window, and
stood as if listening to the rain.

"If only Stepton were here!" thought Malling.

There was a truth hidden from him, perhaps partly divined, obscurely half
seen, but not thoroughly understood, as a whole invisible. Stepton would
be the man to elucidate it, Malling thought. It lured him on, and baffled
him.

"How it rains!" said the curate at last, without turning.

He bent down and opened the small window. The uneasy, almost sinister
noise of rain in darkness entered the room, with the soft smell of
moisture.

"Do you mind i