"But that is not the worst," went on the preacher, with desperate calm. "I listened to the woman's voice, talking of Hell as if—as if it was a joke, almost; and I felt no anger. I was only afraid that Heaven would strike her dead, and take her out of my reach. Man, it's fearful, fearful! I tried to rebuke her—when fear for her life had passed—but the words might as well have come out of a tin kettle, for all the heart that went with them. I can't believe any longer, Lomax."
The preacher's agony was so real, and it was all about so trifling a matter from his friend's standpoint, that Griff could have laughed aloud. That a man should have come to Hirst's age, and be frightened by one overmastering impulse of love—surely there was something absurdly askew in it. But he did not laugh: he just tightened his grip of the other's arm, and—
"Gabriel Hirst," said he, "you've been preaching too much and eating too little. You're going to listen to me now, whether you like it or not. I take my painting about as seriously as you take your religion; I eat it, and live it, and breathe it every moment of my life."
The preacher made a faint murmur of protest, but Griff's hand crushed it out of him, still-born.
"Sometimes, old fellow, I paint too much, just as you have been preaching too much; and I lose my faith in art. I go about like a lunatic, and I think perdition has found me at last."
"Perdition has never had far to seek for you, and more's the pity." Gabriel Hirst was beginning to tingle with fight again—which was just what the other wanted.
"Not my perdition; that only comes near when I've been playing the fool with myself. I try not to be a muff at these times, Hirst; I go out, and walk or ride, till I can do nothing but stumble into bed and sleep the clock round. I generally get up healthy."
"You mean—you mean that I'm being a muff?" asked the preacher, in surprise. There was no resentment in his tones.
"Yes; that's just about it. Have you to preach to-night?"
"I have; though God knows I'm not fit to do it."