"Have you no excuses—no defence?" she demanded.
"I might lay it to that wine at the church—and prove myself still weaker," said Blake.
"The holy communion!" she reproached.
"I never made fun even of a Chinaman's religion," he said. "Just the same, if I don't believe a thing, I don't lie and let on I do. I told you that wine meant nothing to me in a religious way. But even if it had, I don't think it would have made any difference. Drop nitric acid on the altar rail, and it will eat the brass just the same as if it was in a brass foundry. Put alcohol inside me, and the craving starts up full blast."
"Then you believe I should excuse—"
"No," he interrupted with grim firmness. "I might have thought it then—but not now. I've had two days to think it over. It all comes down to this: If, knowing how you felt about it, I could not kneel there beside you and take that taste of wine without going under, I'm just what you suspected—weak, unfit."
She clasped her hands on her bosom. "You—admit it?"
"What's the use of lying about it?" he said. "If it hadn't come about that way, you can see now it was bound to happen some other way."
"I—suppose—yes. Oh! but it's horrible!—horrible! I thought you so strong!"
"I won't bother you any more," he muttered. "Good-bye."