“No,” said the other, “you do not understand; let me make you see.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Molly; “no,” hurriedly, “let me tell you. I want to tell you. It will help me. I take things—I have to; anything that will make me forget and make me sleep. I’m afraid—I take it because I’m afraid to die.”
He looked at her out of dull eyes. She was, self-avowedly, everything he held abhorrent—alien, worldly, and weak. He stammered something—was he asking God to help her, or himself?—and left her.
Later, as he and Mr. Jonas drove back to Aden, the eyes of Mr. Jonas snapped. “You’re brewing mischief to your own or somebody else’s peace of mind; you always are when you look like that. Out with it, man.”
Why Mr. Henderson should out with it, he himself knew less than any, but Mr. Jonas had a way.
The minister’s words came forth with effort.
“I’ve been seeking light to know why Mrs. Garnier was sent down here. I’ve never cared for a woman before; I can’t seem to tear it out. But to-day it’s made clear: she was sent to me to be saved.”
“From her faith?” inquired Mr. Jonas.
But the minister was impervious to the sarcasm.
“To the faith,” said Mr. Henderson.