"Nothing; beyond the mere fact that he is very fond of you. Opdyke doesn't care for many people; his very affection tells its story. Still, that is beside the point. What tag ends of belief have you got left?"
Even in its kindliness, the voice was masterful, the voice of the thoroughbred, when he gets in earnest. Brenton longed to stiffen himself against the mastery, but he could not. His ineffectual effort lent an edge of sarcasm to his tone.
"When the eye of the parish is upon me, I read out the Nicene Creed in the deepest voice at my disposal. When—"
"This is rather beneath your customary methods, Brenton," his companion interrupted him. "But go on."
Brenton's lips shut hard together for a minute. Then he did go on, and in a totally different voice.
"When I look myself squarely in the face, Whittenden, I find I can assent to just two points, no more."
"And they?"
"God. Universal law."
"So far, so good. And man?" Whittenden queried.
"Their corollary."