"You think then that I had no message?"
"I think," and now her hand went out to him across the table, as if she would soften the words, "I think that if you had felt yourself called to do that one thing, that nothing would have swayed you from it—there are people not in the churches, who never go to church, who want what you have to give—there are the highways and hedges. Oh, surely, not all of the people worth preaching to are the ones in the pews."
She flung the challenge at him directly.
And he flung it back to her, "If I had had such a woman as you in my life——"
"Oh, don't, don't." The radiance died. "What has any woman to do with it? It is you—yourself, who must stand the test."
After the ringing words there was dead silence. Roger sat leaning forward, his eyes not upon her, but upon the fire. In his white face there was no hint of weakness; there was, rather, pride, obstinacy, the ruggedness of inflexible purpose.
"I am afraid," he said at last, "that I have not stood the test."
Her clear eyes met his squarely. "Then meet it now."
For a moment he blazed. "I know now what you think of me, that I am a man who has shirked."
"You know I do not think that."