"That's obvious—but why—what—I don't understand."
"In the first place I'm not a clergyman any more—for which there is no rejoicing: but in the second, I'm not a prig any more—for which there is...."
"Arnold—you've really left the Church?"
"Or it's left me—the result's the same," he said quite cheerfully.
"But what caused it? I heard you had resigned—everybody talked about it—but why?"
"I don't suppose you ever saw a 'slide' at Panama?"
She shook her head, wondering.
"Well, first a piece of rock, perhaps no bigger than your fist, slips out of place. That moves another and another and another, until before you can whistle twice, a pile of earth that has seemed as fixed as time is as flat as the back of your hand.
"That's the way it was with me. A few months ago I thought my convictions were as fixed as the everlasting hills. I looked solid—but I wasn't. Really, I was made up of very small pieces. Then, when you poked fun at me, you jarred one of those pieces out of place. That moved another—and another—and another ... until with a rush, the whole thing came tumbling about my ears. When the noise was over and the dust settled, it was up to me to set about putting the pieces together again as best I could. I don't know what kind of a mess I'd have made of it if I hadn't had the luck to fall in with Dr. Weis—perhaps you've heard of him?"
"Only vaguely," admitted Judith.