Then stirring the peats for light as well as warmth, (for the room was dark with its lining of books, and the evening was closing in) he said:
"Now what is it? Something serious—I can see that much."
"It is serious, Father Dan."
"Tell me then," he said, and as well as I could I told him my story.
I told him that since I had seen him last, during that violent scene at Castle Raa, my relations with my husband had become still more painful; I told him that, seeing I could not endure any longer the degradation of the life I was living, I had thought about divorce; I told him that going first to the Bishop and afterwards to my father's advocate I had learned that neither the Church nor the law, for their different reasons, could grant me the relief I required; and finally, in a faint voice (almost afraid to hear myself speak it), I told him my solemn and sacred secret—that whatever happened I could not continue to live where I was now living because I loved somebody else than my husband.
While I was speaking Father Dan was shuffling his feet and plucking at his shabby cassock, and as soon as I had finished he flashed out on me with an anger I had never seen in his face or heard in his voice before.
"I know who it is," he said. "It's Martin Conrad."
I was so startled by this that I was beginning to ask how he knew, when he cried:
"Never mind how I know. Perhaps you think an old priest has no eyes for anything but his breviary, eh? It's young Martin, isn't it?"
"Yes."