Graham glanced round him. They were in the park now, and no one in
particular was about in the quiet of the sidewalk. He put his hand out,
and drew her gently to a seat. Then, leaning forward and poking at the
ground with his stick, he began. "Hilda, darling," he said, "it's awful
to have to speak to you just now and just like this, but I must. First,
about ourselves. I love you with all my heart, only that's so little to
say; I love you so much that you fill my life. And I have planned my life
with you. I hardly knew it, but I had. I thought I should just go on and
get a living and marry you--perhaps, if you would (I can hardly speak of
it now I know you would)--and--and--oh, I don't know--make a name in the
Church, I suppose. Well, and I hope we shall one day, but now this has
come along. I really feel all I said this morning, awfully. I shall go
out--I must. The men must be helped; one can't sit still and imagine them
dying, wounded, tempted, and without a priest. It's a supreme chance. We
shall be fighting for honour and truth, and the Church must be there to
bear her witness and speak her message. There will be no end to do. And
it is a chance of a lifetime to get into touch with the men, and
understand them. You do see that, don't you? And, besides--forgive me,
but I must put it so--if _He_ had compassion on the multitude, ought we
not to have too? _He_ showed it by death; ought we to fear even that
too?"

The girl stole out a hand, and his gripped it hard. Then she remembered
the conventions and pulled it away, and sat a little more upright. She
was extraordinarily conscious of herself, and she felt as if she had two
selves that day. One was Hilda Lessing, a girl she knew quite well, a
well-trained person who understood life, and the business of society and
of getting married, quite correctly; and the other was somebody she did
not know at all, that could not reason, and who felt naked and ashamed.
It was inexplicable, but it was so. That second self was listening to