Pierson bowed his head, abashed.

“You preach of universal charity and love,” went on Lavendie; “but how can there be that when you teach also secretly the keeping of your troubles to yourselves?  Man responds to example, not to teaching; you set the example of the stranger, not the brother.  You expect from others what you do not give.  Frankly, monsieur, do you not feel that with every revelation of your soul and feelings, virtue goes out of you?  And I will tell you why, if you will not think it an offence.  In opening your hearts you feel that you lose authority.  You are officers, and must never forget that.  Is it not so?”

Pierson grew red.  “I hope there is another feeling too.  I think we feel that to speak of our sufferings or, deeper feelings is to obtrude oneself, to make a fuss, to be self-concerned, when we might be concerned with others.”

“Monsieur, au fond we are all concerned with self.  To seem selfless is but your particular way of cultivating the perfection of self.  You admit that not to obtrude self is the way to perfect yourself.  Eh bien!  What is that but a deeper concern with self?  To be free of this, there is no way but to forget all about oneself in what one is doing, as I forget everything when I am painting.  But,” he added, with a sudden smile, “you would not wish to forget the perfecting of self—­it would not be right in your profession.  So I must take away this picture, must I not?  It is one of my best works:  I regret much not to have finished it.”

“Some day, perhaps—­”

“Some day!  The picture will stand still, but mademoiselle will not.  She will rush at something, and behold! this face will be gone.  No; I prefer to keep it as it is.  It has truth now.”  And lifting down the canvas, he stood it against the wall and folded up the easel.  “Bon soir, monsieur, you have been very good to me.”  He wrung Pierson’s hand; and his face for a moment seemed all eyes and spirit.  “Adieu!”

“Good-bye,” Pierson murmured.  “God bless you!”

“I don’t know if I have great confidence in Him,” replied Lavendie, “but I shall ever remember that so good a man as you has wished it.  To mademoiselle my distinguished salutations, if you please.  If you will permit me, I will come back for my other things to-morrow.”  And carrying easel and canvas, he departed.

Pierson stayed in the old drawing-room, waiting for Gratian to come in, and thinking over the painter’s words.  Had his education and position really made it impossible for him to be brotherly?  Was this the secret of the impotence which he sometimes felt; the reason why charity and love were not more alive in the hearts of his congregation?  ’God knows I’ve no consciousness of having felt myself superior,’ he thought; ’and yet I would be truly ashamed to tell people of my troubles and of my struggles.  Can it be that Christ, if he were on earth, would count us Pharisees, believing