"Exactly. What do you know? What can any one know of it? Imagination even couldn't do justice to the whole truth. I came out of it not desolate, alone; not only sick of body and soul, but even degraded. Yes, I mean it. A degraded wretch—that's how I saw myself. The poor street-walker seemed a clean and honorable thing beside me."
"And so you became a Catholic. Is this the usual way into the fold?"
"It is, for many. Yes," she went on, with a strange glow in her eyes, "for those who have endured great wickedness as for those who have committed it, God be thanked, there is one respirable medium left on earth. Call it what you will—a hospital of sick souls, a home for moral convalescents."
"I call it nothing. I take your word for it. Does this account for the decrepitude of so much of your doctrine?"
"Ah! don't be clever, Paul. Cleverness is a little thing. At least I should be loyal to that in which I have found peace, self-respect, a new life."
"You misjudge me, Althea. I grudge you none of your comfort. God is true if He's true for you, and He's true, for you, if the thought of Him gives you peace."
There really seemed nothing more to say, and he got to his feet.
"Send along my manuscript," he said, "whenever it's convenient, and dismiss the matter from your mind. It makes no difference."
"Why are you in such a hurry to go?" she asked fretfully, and put her hand to her head. She seemed to sway.
"Are you ill?" Ingram asked, coming across and standing beside her.