The rector bowed and complied. The request, however, had checked the current of his speech, even the current of his thoughts, and he did not finish his sentence. He felt, indeed, for a moment a temptation as sudden as it was strong. He saw at a glance what his resolve meant. He discerned that what had appeared to him in the isolation of the night an act of dignified self-surrender must, and would, seem to others an acknowledgment of defeat—almost an acknowledgment of dishonor. He recalled, as in a flash, all the episodes of the struggle between himself and his companion. And he pictured the latter’s triumph. He wavered. But the events of the night had not been lost upon him, and, after a brief hesitation, he set the seal on his purpose. “You are aware, I know, Mr. Bonamy,” he said, “of the circumstances under which, in Lord Dynmore’s absence, I accepted the living here.” “Perfectly,” said the lawyer drily. “He has made those circumstances the subject of a grave charge against me,” the rector continued, a touch of hauteur in his tone. “That you have heard also, I know. Well, I desire to say once more that I repudiate that charge in the fullest and widest sense.” “So I understand,” Mr. Bonamy murmured. He walked along by his companion’s side, his face set and inscrutable. If he felt any surprise at the communication now being made to him he had the skill to hide it. “I repudiate it, you understand!” the clergyman repeated, stepping out more quickly in his excitement, and glaring angrily into vacancy. “It is a false and wicked charge! But it does not affect me. I do not care a jot for it. It does not in any sense force me to do what I am going to do. If that were all, I should not dream of resigning the living, but, on the contrary, would hold it, as a few days ago I had determined to hold it, in the face of all opposition. However,” he continued, lowering his tone, “I have now examined my position in regard to the parish rather than the patron, and I have come to a different conclusion, Mr. Bonamy—namely, to place my resignation in the proper hands as speedily as possible.” Mr. Bonamy nodded gently and silently. He did not speak, he did not even look at the clergyman; and this placid acquiescence irritated the young man into adding a word he had not intended to say. “I tell you this as my church-warden, Mr. Bonamy,” he continued stiffly, “and not as desiring or expecting any word of sympathy or regret from you. On the contrary,” he added, with some bitterness, “I am aware that my departure can be only a relief to you. We have been opposed to one another since my first day here.” “Very true,” said Mr. Bonamy. “I suppose you have considered——” “What?” “The effect which last night’s work may have on the relations between you and Lord Dynmore?” “I do not understand you,” the rector answered haughtily, and yet with some wonder. What did the man mean?