"In the man of the New Testament. I have thought a little more about
these things, I fancy, than you have, Mr. Faber. I may come to be
sure of something; I don't see how a man can ever be sure of
NOTHING."

"Don't suppose me quite dumbfoundered, though I can't answer you off
hand," said Mr. Faber, as they reached his door.--"Come in with me,
and I will make up the medicine myself; it will save time. There are
a thousand difficulties," he resumed in the surgery, "some of them
springing from peculiar points that come before one of my
profession, which I doubt if you would be able to meet so readily.
But about this poor fellow, Lingard. You know Glaston gossip says he
is out of his mind."

"If I were you, Mr. Faber, I would not take pains to contradict it.
He is not out of his mind, but has such trouble in it as might well
drive him out.--Don't you even hint at that, though."

"I understand," said Faber.

"If doctor and minister did understand each other and work
together," said Wingfold, "I fancy a good deal more might be done."

"I don't doubt it.--What sort of fellow is that cousin of
theirs--Bascombe is his name, I believe?"

"A man to suit you, I should think," said the curate; "a man with a
most tremendous power of believing in nothing."