The coffee-pot was on the table. Chichester poured out some more.

"I will have another cup, too," he said. "How it wakes up the mind."

He glanced at Mailing and added:

"Almost terribly sometimes."

"Yes. But--going back to our subject--don't you still think that men
should live by the truth?"

"I think," began Chichester--"I think--"

It seemed as if something physical prevented him from continuing. He
swallowed, as if forcing something down his throat.

"I think," he got out at last, "that few men know how terrible the face
of truth can be."

His own countenance was contorted as he spoke, as if he were regarding
something frightful.

"I think"--he turned right round in his chair to confront Malling
squarely--"that _you_ do not know."

For the first time he completely dominated Malling, Chichester the
gentle, cherubic clergyman, whom Malling had thought of as good, but
weak, and certainly as a negligible quantity. He dominated, because at
that moment he made Malling feel as if he had some great possession of
knowledge which Malling lacked.