unburdened by great doubts and deep glooms he must not shiver when his wife tinkles her champagne glass against another.  He must learn to appreciate the sinuous beauties of the cabaret dancer, and must train himself to take no offence when he sees shimmering wines tilted down white throats.  He must train himself to many things, just as he trains himself to classical music and grand opera.  To do these things he must forget, as much as he can, the sweet melodies and the sweeter women who are sinking into oblivion together.  He must accept life as a Grand Piano tuned by a new sort of Tuning Master, and unless he can dance to its music he is a misfit.  That is what my friend said to extenuate her.  She fitted into this kind of life splendidly.  He was in the other groove.  She loved light, laughter, wine, song, and excitement.  He, the misfit, loved his books, his work, and his home.  His greatest joy would have been to go with her, hand in hand, through some wonderful cathedral, pointing out its ancient glories and mysteries to her.  He wanted aloneness—­just they two.  Such was his idea of love.  And she—­wanted other things.  You understand, Father?...  The thing grew, and at last he saw that she was getting away from him.  Her passion for admiration and excitement became a madness.  I know, because I saw it.  My friend said that it was madness, even as he was going mad.  And yet he did not suspect her.  If another had told him that she was unclean I am sure he would have killed him.  Slowly he came to experience the agony of knowing that the woman whom he worshipped did not love him.  But this did not lead him to believe that she could love another—­or others.  Then, one day, he left the city.  She went with him to the train—­his wife.  She saw him go.  She waved her handkerchief at him.  And as she stood there she was—­glorious.”

Through partly closed eyes the Little Missioner saw his shoulders tighten, and a hardness settle about his mouth.  The voice, too, was changed when it went on.  It was almost emotionless.

“It’s sometimes curious how the Chief Arbiter of things plays His tricks on men—­and women, isn’t it, Father?  There was trouble on the line ahead, and my friend came back.  It was unexpected.  It was late when he reached home, and with his night key he went in quietly, because he did not want to awaken her.  It was very still in the house—­until he came to the door of her room.  There was a light.  He heard voices—­very low.  He listened.  He went in.”

There was a terrible silence.  The ticking of Father Roland’s big silver watch seemed like the beating of a tiny drum.

“And what happened then, David?”