“Mine is only too clear.  I have given up everything and got nothing.  It’s this way:  all the heart is out of me.  If I went back to my work I should be a sham.”

“I don’t see that.  May I smoke?”

He lighted a cigar, and sat quiet for a few seconds.

“I suppose,” he resumed, “you still believe what you used to teach?”

“Certainly; that is—­yes, I believe it.  But it isn’t part of me as it was.”

“Ah! but you think it’s true?”

“I remain perfectly satisfied with the demonstration of its truth—­only I have lost the faith that is above knowledge.”

It was evidently only with an effort that Ayre repressed a sarcasm.  Stafford saw his difficulty.

“You don’t follow that?”

“I have heard it spoken of before.  But, after all, it’s beside the point.  You believe the things so that, as far as honesty goes, you could still teach them?”

“Certainly I should believe every dogma I taught.”

“Including the dogma that people ought to be good?”

“Including that,” answered Stafford, with a smile.

“I don’t see what more you want,” said Sir Roderick, with an air of finality.

Stafford felt himself, against his will, growing more cheerful.  In fact, it was a pleasure to him to exercise his brains once again, instead of being the slave of his emotions.  Ayre had anticipated such a result from their conversation.

“Everything more,” he said.  “Personal holiness is at the bottom of it all.”

“The best thing, I dare say.”  Ayre conceded.  “But indispensable?  Besides, you have it.”

“Never again.”

“Yes, I say—­in all essentials.”

“I can’t do it.  Ah, Ayre! it’s all empty to me now.”

“For God’s sake, be a man!  Is there nothing on earth to be but a saint or a husband?”

Stafford looked at him inquiringly.

“Heavens, man! have you no ambition?  Here you are, with ten men’s brains, and you sit—­I don’t know how you sit—­in sackcloth, clearly, but whether for heaven or for Claudia I don’t know.  You think it odd to hear me preach ambition?  I’m a lazy devil; but I have some power.  Yes, I’m in my way a power.  I might have been a greater.  You might be a greater than ever I could.”

Stafford listened.

“Do good if you can,” Ayre went on, “and you can.  But do something.  Don’t throw up the sponge because you had one fall.  Make yourself something to live for.”

“In the Church?”

“Yes—­that suits you best.  Your own Church or another.  I’ve often wondered why you don’t try the other.”

“I’ve been very near trying it before now.”

“It’s a splendid field.  Glorious!  You might do anything.”

Stafford was silent, and Ayre sat regarding him closely.

“Use my office for personal ambition?” he asked at last.

“Pray don’t talk cant.  Do some good work, and raise yourself high enough to do more.”