Percy laid down the sheet, gathered up the half dozen other papers that contained his extracts and running commentary, signed the last, and slipped the whole into the printed envelope that lay ready.
Then he took up his biretta and went to the lift.
The moment he came into the glass-doored parlour he saw that the crisis was come, if not passed already. Father Francis looked miserably ill, but there was a curious hardness, too, about his eyes and mouth, as he stood waiting. He shook his head abruptly.
"I have come to say good-bye, father. I can bear it no more."
Percy was careful to show no emotion at all. He made a little sign to a chair, and himself sat down too.
"It is an end of everything," said the other again in a perfectly steady voice. "I believe nothing. I have believed nothing for a year now."
"You have felt nothing, you mean," said Percy.
"That won't do, father," went on the other. "I tell you there is nothing left. I can't even argue now. It is just good-bye."
Percy had nothing to say. He had talked to this man during a period of over eight months, ever since Father Francis had first confided in him that his faith was going. He understood perfectly what a strain it had been; he felt bitterly compassionate towards this poor creature who had become caught up somehow into the dizzy triumphant whirl of the New Humanity. External facts were horribly strong just now; and faith, except to one who had learned that Will and Grace were all and emotion nothing, was as
