Percy drew a breath to steady that maddening vibration in his throat.

“Yes, I am a priest,” he said.

Again the whimpering broke out from the bed; and Percy, half turning again to silence it, saw the girl mechanically loosen the clasp of the thin dust cloak over her white dress.

“You sent for him, mother?” snapped the man, with a tremble in his voice, and with a sudden jerk forward of his whole body.  But the girl put out her hand.

“Quietly, my dear,” she said.  “Now, sir—–­”

“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 Oliver stood before the fireplace, his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket, slightly turned away.

Percy’s concentrated senses became aware of every detail of the room—­the deep springy green carpet, smooth under his feet, the straight hanging thin silk curtains, the half-dozen low tables with a wealth of flowers upon them, and the books that lined the walls.  The whole room was heavy with the scent of roses, although the windows were wide, and the night-breeze stirred the curtains continually.  It was a woman’s room, he told himself.  Then he looked at the man’s figure, lithe, tense, upright; the dark grey suit not unlike his own, the beautiful curve of the jaw, the clear pale complexion, the thin nose, the protruding curve of idealism over the eyes, and the dark hair.  It was a poet’s face, he told himself, and the whole personality was a living and vivid one.  Then he turned a little and rose as the door opened, and Mabel came in, closing it behind her.