"And you still intend to go?" Mr. Bentley asked.

Hodder leaned his elbow against the mantel. The lamplight had a curious
effect on Mr. Bentley's face.

"What can I do?" he demanded. The question was not aimed directly at his
host--it was in the nature of a renewed appeal to a tribunal which had
been mute, but with which he now seemed vaguely aware of a certain
contact. "Even supposing I could bring myself to accept the compromise
--now that I see it clearly, that the end justifies the means--what good
could I accomplish? You saw what happened this afternoon--the man would
have driven me out if, it hadn't been for you. This whole conception of
charity is a crime against civilization--I had to have that pointed out
to me, too,--this system of legalized or semi-legalized robbery and the
distribution of largesse to the victims. The Church is doing wrong,
is stultifying herself in encouraging it. She should set her face
rigidly against it, stand for morality and justice and Christianity in
government, not for pauperizing. It is her mission to enlighten these
people, all people--to make them self-respecting, to give them some
notion of the dignity of their souls and their rights before God and
man."

"Aren't you yourself suggesting," said Mr. Bentley, "the course which
will permit you to remain?"

Hodder was silent. The thought struck him with tremendous force. Had he
suggested it? And how--why? Could it be done? Could he do it or begin
it?

"We have met at last in a singular way," he heard Mr. Bentley going on,