"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
