“He was not doing his best to-night,” answered Gerald.

“Thank you,” said Halloway, coming quickly to her side, anxious to avoid further eavesdropping.  “Thank you—­I mean for thinking I might do better.”

“That is not much to be grateful for, I am afraid,” replied Gerald, “since it implies, you know, that you have not done well.”

“I hope you like uncompromising truth, Mr. Halloway,” said De Forest, leaning forward to look at him across Gerald.  “It’s the only kind Miss Vernor deals in.”

“I prefer it infinitely to the most flattering falsehood imaginable,” answered Denham.

“I believe clergymen are usually the last people to hear the truth about themselves,” continued Gerald.  “Their position at the head of a community, pre-supposes their capability for the office, and naturally places them outside of the criticism of those under their immediate charge, who are nevertheless just the ones best qualified to judge them.  But of course scholars may not teach the teacher.”

“What an invaluable opening for you who are not one of Mr. Halloway’s flock,” said De Forest, “to undertake to remedy the deficiency, and to be in yourself a whole critical public to him, a licensed Free Press as it were, pointing out all his errors with the most unhesitating frankness and unsparing perspicuity!”

“Do you think your love of truth would hold out long under such a crucial test?” asked Gerald, turning quite seriously to Denham.  The moonlight shone full on her clear-cut, cameo-like face.  Her eyes, with their shadowy fringe, looked deeper and blacker than midnight.  It did not seem possible that truth spoken by her could be any thing but beautiful too.  Denham smiled down at her seriousness.

“Try me.”

“Well, then, it seems to me you do not often enough try to do your best.  You are contented to do well, and not ambitious to do better.  You are quite satisfied, so I think, if your sermons are good enough to please generally, instead of seeking to raise your standard all the time by hard effort toward improvement, and I doubt, therefore, if at the end of a year your sermons will show any marked change from what they are to-day.  Am I too hard?”

“You are very just,” answered Denham, pleasantly, though the blood mounted to his face.  “You have found out my weak spot.  I confess I am not ambitious.  I aspire to no greatness of any kind.”

“You have discovered the secret of contentment,” said De Forest, with effusive approbation.  “I am glad to have met you, Mr. Halloway.  You are the one happy man I know.”

“The secret of contentment?” repeated Gerald.  “Say rather the principle of all stagnation, mental and spiritual.  Not to aspire to become greater than one can be is to fall short of becoming all that one may be; to be satisfied with one’s powers is to dwarf them hopelessly.”

“A powerful argument against conceit,” reflected De Forest.  “Still, upon my word, I think I would as lief be conceited in every pore as eternally in a state of dissatisfaction with myself about every thing.”