Doane closed his eyes again; and compressed his lips.
Withery, anxiously watching him, saw that the healthy color was leaving his face.
After a silence that grew steadily in intensity, Doane at last opened his eyes, and spoke, huskily, but with grim force.
“Of course, Henry, you're right. Right enough. These things are details. They're on my nerves, that's all. I'm going to tell you...” He sat up, slowly swung his feet to the floor, clasped his hands.... “I'll spare you my personal history of the past few years. And, of course, captious criticism of the church is no proper introduction to what I'm going to say. During these recent years I've been groping through my own Gethsemane. It has been a terrible time. There have been many moments when I've questioned the value of the struggle. If I had been as nearly alone as it has seemed, sometimes... I mean, if there hadn't been little Betty to think of...”
“I understand,” Withery murmured.
“In a way I've come through my Valley. My head has cleared a little. And now I know only too clearly; it is very difficult; in a way, the time of doubt and groping was easier to bear... I know that I am in the wrong work.”
Withery, with moist eyes, studied the carpet.
“You are sure?” he managed to ask.
He felt rather than saw his friend's slow nod.
“It's a relief, of course, to tell you.” Doane was speaking with less effort now; but his color had not returned. “There's no one else. I couldn't say it to Hidderleigh. To me that man is fundamentally dishonest.”