"And you?" said Malling. "Do you know?"

The curate's lips worked, but he made no answer.

Malling was aware of a great struggle in his mind, as of a combat in
which two forces were engaged. He got up, walked to the window, and
stood as if listening to the rain.

"If only Stepton were here!" thought Malling.

There was a truth hidden from him, perhaps partly divined, obscurely half
seen, but not thoroughly understood, as a whole invisible. Stepton would
be the man to elucidate it, Malling thought. It lured him on, and baffled
him.

"How it rains!" said the curate at last, without turning.

He bent down and opened the small window. The uneasy, almost sinister
noise of rain in darkness entered the room, with the soft smell of
moisture.

"Do you mind if we have a little air?" he added.

"I should like it," said Malling.

Chichester came back and sat down again opposite Malling. His
expression had now quite changed. He looked calmer, gentler, weaker,
and much more uninteresting. Crossing his legs, and folding his thin
hands on his knees, he began to talk in his light tenor voice. And