"I see what you mean," she said, "by staying in you can do many things that you could not do, you can help to bring about the change, by being frank. That is your point of view. You believe m the future of the Church."
"I believe in an universal, Christian organization," he replied.
"But while stronger men are honest," she objected, "are not your ancient vows and ancient Creeds continually making weaker men casuists?"
"Undoubtedly," he agreed vigorously, and thought involuntarily of Mr. Engel's phrased fatty degeneration of the soul. "Yet I can see the signs, on all sides, of a gradual emancipation, of which I might be deemed an example." A smile came into his eyes, like the sun on a grey-green sea.
"Oh, you could never be a casuist!" she exclaimed, with a touch of vehemence. "You are much too positive. It is just that note, which is characteristic of so many clergymen, that note of smoothing-over and apology, which you lack. I could never feel it, even when you were orthodox. And now—" words failed her as she inspected his ruggedness.
"And now," he took her up, to cover his emotion, "now I am not to be classified!"
Still examining him, she reflected on this.
"Classified?" Isn't it because you're so much of an individual that one fails to classify you? You represent something new to my experience, something which seems almost a contradiction—an emancipated Church."
"You imagined me out of the Church,—but where?" he demanded.
"That's just it," she wondered intimately, "where? When I try, I can see no other place for you. Your place as in the pulpit."