"But, if you don't believe in it?" A sudden gleam of mirth came into Whittenden's clear eyes. "Do you expect to put your foot on every single plank in any platform, Brenton? If you do, you'll need to have it built just to your measure. It seems to me that, in course of time, you'd find it a little lonely, to say nothing of the minor fact that people work together all the better for being on some sort of a common basis." "But is work the only thing?" Brenton queried rather absently. And the curly-headed rector by his side made swift, emphatic answer,-- "Yes." "Then why--" Whittenden interrupted him. "What do you believe, Brenton? For any man is bound to have some shreds of belief; that is, as long as he keeps out of the nearest asylum for the incurable insane." "My belief, or my profession?" "Hang your profession!" Whittenden said impatiently. "Or else, hang on to it, and keep still. But it's your belief I want, your creed, your working platform." "How do you know I have one?" Brenton asked rather irritably, for Whittenden's attitude was distinctly less satisfying to him than it had been of yore. "Because I know the kind of men Saint Peter's has been accustomed to demand. Also because I have talked to Reed Opdyke." "And Opdyke told you--" "Nothing; beyond the mere fact that he is very fond of you. Opdyke doesn't care for many people; his very affection tells its story. Still, that is beside the point. What tag ends of belief have you got left?" Even in its kindliness, the voice was masterful, the voice of the thoroughbred, when he gets in earnest. Brenton longed to stiffen himself against the mastery, but he could not. His ineffectual effort lent an edge of sarcasm to his tone. "When the eye of the parish is upon me, I read out the Nicene Creed in the deepest voice at my disposal. When--" "This is rather beneath your customary methods, Brenton," his companion interrupted him. "But go on." Brenton's lips shut hard together for a minute. Then he did go on, and in a totally different voice. "When I look myself squarely in the face, Whittenden, I find I can assent to just two points, no more." "And they?" "God. Universal law." "So far, so good. And man?" Whittenden queried. "Their corollary." "Exactly." Whittenden walked on in silence for a little way. "Well, what else do you want, Brenton?" he inquired. "Nothing. My people, however, want a great deal more." "How do you know?" "Our ritual." "Can't you interpret it with any common sense?" The impatience again was manifest. "Not in common honesty." And Brenton lifted up his chin. A little laugh came to his companion's lips and eyes.