“I have had one sandwich, sir,” answered Gilead: “and I could wish, for your sake, that I had had all. But what can it matter to you? The spiritual communion for which you crave is hardly concerned with things of the flesh.”
“It must suffer, its lustre must sink diminished in the shadow of the moral falsehood,” cried Mr Bundy, abashed and despairing.
“Then, sir,” said Gilead, “apply truth for a remedy. It is the only one. Come, be a man, Mr Bundy, and own up and ask absolution.”
“I dare not,” answered the obese gentleman, almost weeping—“I dare not. Her sensitiveness—the shock—my tongue-tied confusion! She does not even know my vocation. Sooner or later she would have to, and then—the double disillusionment!”
“I would not wrong her,” said Gilead; “but wealth, with the best of us, is a flattering recommendation.”
The other looked at him meltingly.
“Ah!” he sighed, “if I could only find one, cultured, diplomatic, who would consent to be my deputy for the truth!”
Gilead drew himself up.
“You mean me,” he said.
“I know you represent it,” faltered Mr Bundy—and stopped, casting down his eyes.