Doane stopped at the window; stared out. Withery thought his face was working.
“Have you any means at all?” he asked.
Doane moved his head in the negative.... “Oh, my books. A few personal things.”
“Of course”—Withery's voice softened—“you've given away a good deal.”
“I've given everything.”
“Hum!... Have you thought of anything else you might do?”
Doane turned. “Henry, I'm forty-five years old. I have no profession, no business experience beyond the little administrative work here. Yet I must live, not only for myself, but to support my little girl. If I do quit, and try to find a place in the business world, I shall carry to my grave the stigma that clings always to the unfrocked priest.” He strode to the door. “I tell you, I've thought of everything!... We're getting nowhere with this. I appreciate your interest. But... I'm sorry, Henry. Sleep if you can. Good night.”
They met, with M. Pourmont and the others, at breakfast.
There was a moment, on the steps of the gate house, overlooking the narrow busy street, when they silently clasped hands.
Then Henry Withery crawled in under the blue curtains of his cart and rode away, carrying with him a mental picture of a huge man, stooping a little under the red lintel of the doorway, his strong face sternly set.