The coffee-pot was on the table. Chichester poured out some more.
"I will have another cup, too," he said. "How it wakes up the mind."
He glanced at Mailing and added:
"Almost terribly sometimes."
"Yes. But—going back to our subject—don't you still think that men should live by the truth?"
"I think," began Chichester—"I think—"
It seemed as if something physical prevented him from continuing. He swallowed, as if forcing something down his throat.
"I think," he got out at last, "that few men know how terrible the face of truth can be."
His own countenance was contorted as he spoke, as if he were regarding something frightful.
"I think"—he turned right round in his chair to confront Malling squarely—"that you do not know."