The two men looked at each other in silence. Mr. Byars seemed ill at ease. His foot tapped the brass rail of the fender. Then, a sure sign of disturbance with him, he put down his pipe, which was nearly smoked away, and took a cigarette from a box on the table and smoked in short, quick puffs.
Gortre's face became dark and gloomy. The light died out of it, the kindliness of expression, which was habitual, left his eyes.
"We have never really told each other what we think of Schuabe and how we think of him, vicar," he said. "Let us have it out here and now while we are thinking of him and while we have the opportunity."
"In a question of this sort," said Mr. Byars, "confidences are extremely dangerous as a rule, but between you and me it is different. It will clear our brains mutually. God forbid that you and I, in our profession as Christ's priests and our socio-political position as clerks in Holy Orders, should bear rancour against any one. But we are but human. Possibly our mutual confidence may help us both."
There was a curious eagerness in his manner which was reflected by that of the other. Both were conscious of feelings ill in accord with their usual open and kindly attitude towards the world. Each was anxious to know if the other coincided with himself.
Men are weak, and there is comfort in community.
"From envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness—" said Gortre.
"Good Lord deliver us," replied the vicar gravely.
There was a tense silence for a time, only broken by the dropping of the coals in the grate. The vicar was the first to break it.
"I'll sum up my personal impression of the man for and against," he said.
