"I love your church," she went on, more gently. "I love what you have made of it. I love religion because it produces men like you—
"Stop," he said, in a voice that flinched slightly.
She raised her head with a gesture that had a touch of defiance. "Why should I stop?" she asked. "Do you think God will mind if I give His servant his due? Yesterday religion was nothing to me; to-day it is everything, and it is you who have been its revelation. Why should I not tell you so?"
He was regarding her with intentness.
"And you are happier?" he asked.
"Happier! It is an odd word for a woman like me. I am fifty years old, I am alone, I am loveless. It has given me something to hope for, that is all."
"Yes?"
With a sudden yearning she stretched out her thin, white hands in appeal.
"Talk to me," she said. "Make me feel it. I am so alone."
When Father Algarcife descended the brown-stone steps an hour later, his face was drawn and his lips firmly closed. The electric light, shining upon his resolute features, gave them the look of marble.