"Yes."
"Betty will pity me."
A silence followed. Mark was reflecting that Betty's pity without Betty's love would be hard to endure.
"You care for her?" he muttered.
"Oh, yes," said Archibald impatiently, "but she says 'No' to me and everybody else. How I have loved that witch," his voice grew sentimental, "and how I should like to show her that I can preach. And so I can for ordinary occasions, but when it comes to a big thing—somehow I don't score. I'd like to score this time—eh? And if—if you could help me, why—why, it might make all the difference."
"About Betty?" Mark's voice was thin and strained, but Archie was too engrossed with his own thoughts to notice that.
"Betty? I'm not thinking about Betty. I mean that next Sunday may be the making or marring of my career.
"Oh!"
"I put my profession first, as you do, Mark. I can say to you what I would admit to no other, that success in it is vital to me. I've worked hard, and of course I've a pull over most fellows, for which I'm sincerely grateful; but I've not your brains."
"It happens," said Mark after a slight pause, "that I have written a sermon about Westchester Cathedral. You might find something in it; not much, I dare say; but a hint or two. As—as I shall never preach it, why—why shouldn't you have it?"