“Then I decline to avail myself of the privilege; I will ask you nothing, except to say good-by.”

“I will not say it, Phyllis, and I will not hear you say it.  Three months ago you told me that you loved me.”

“And I fancied that I did, but now——­”

“Ah! you think that you have the power to cease loving at a moment’s notice?  You will find out your mistake, my child.  In love there are no good-bys.  I take your hand now, but not to say good-by; I feel that you are still mine—­that you will be mine more than ever when you think—­think—­and pray.”

“Ah!  You ask me to pray?”

“Pray—­pray for me, child.  I need the prayers of such as you, for I feel that my hour of deepest trial is drawing nigh.  Do you fancy that I am the man to take back anything that I have written?  Look at me, Phyllis; I tell you here that I will stand by everything that I have written.  Whatever comes of it, the book remains.  Even if I lose all that I have worked for,—­even if I lose you,—­I will still say ‘the book remains.’  I am ready to suffer for it.  I say in all humility that I believe God will give me grace to die for it.”

She had given him her hand.  He was still holding it when he spoke his final sentence, looking, not into her face, but into a space beyond it.  His eyes more than suggested the eyes of a martyr waiting undaunted for the lighting of the fagots.  Suddenly he dropped her hand.  He looked for a moment into her face.  He saw that the tears were upon it.  He turned and walked out of the room without a word.

No word came from her.

He knew that he had left her at exactly the right moment.  She was undoubtedly annoyed by the publication of the book; but that was because she had read some reviews of it, and was, girl-like, under the impression that the murmur of the reviewers was the mighty voice that echoes round the world.  He felt that she would think differently when his real persecution began.  He looked forward with great hope to the result of his real persecution.  She would never hold out against that.  If the bishop would only take action at once and attempt to deprive him of his pastorate, there was nothing that he might not look for.

And then he reflected that on the following Sunday the church would be crowded to the doors.  She would see that.  She would see the thousands of the fashionable women—­he hoped even for men—­who would fill every available seat, every available standing place in the church, and who would all be anxious to hear his defense.  That would show her that the publication of this book had raised him far above the heads of the ordinary clergyman who droned away, Sunday after Sunday, in half empty churches to congregations that never became interested.  Yes, for many Sundays St. Chad’s would be crowded to the doors.  And then he trusted that the bishop would take action against him, and in proportion to the severity of his persecution on the one hand would be his popularity on the other hand.