"I was attacked by a man in the North End," Philip answered, obeying the wave of the hand which invited him to enter. "He had insulted Mrs. Fenton, and"-- "Mrs. Fenton!" echoed Candish. The tone made Ashe turn quickly. Into his mind flashed the words of Helen and of Mrs. Wilson connecting the name of Candish with that of Mrs. Fenton. In his longing for comfort and advice he had seized upon the rector of the Nativity without remembering that he was the last person to whom he should come. "Ah," he said, "it was true!" Candish did not answer, and they went into the study in silence. The host sat down in the well-worn chair by his writing-table, while Philip took a seat facing him. "What a foolish thing for me to say," Ashe broke out; then surprised at the querulousness of his tone he stopped abruptly. "Mr. Ashe," Candish said gravely, "if there is anything I can do for you will you tell me what it is?" Philip rose quickly, and took a step towards him, leaning down over the thin, homely face. "I have found you out!" he cried with exultation. "I came to confess my sin to you, and I find that you love her too!" "Don't be hysterical and melodramatic," was the cool response. "Sit down, and let us talk rationally if we are to talk at all." The manner of Candish recalled Philip to himself. He sat down heavily. "I beg your pardon," he said. "Since that fight I have been half beside myself. I am like a hysterical girl." The other regarded him compassionately. "Mr. Ashe," responded he, "there is no good in my pretending that I didn't understand what you meant just now. You and I are both given to the priesthood. If we both love a woman"-- "I love her," burst in Philip, half defiantly, half remorsefully, "and I have told her so! I have condemned myself"-- "Stop," Candish interrupted. "First you have to think of her." Philip stared in silence. It came over him how entirely he had been thinking of himself, and how little he had considered Mrs. Fenton in his reflections upon the events of the previous evening. Here was a man who could love her so well as to think of her first and himself last. "But I have given her up," Philip stammered. "Was she yours to give up?" There was nothing bitter or sneering in the words; they were said simply and dispassionately. "No," Philip answered, dropping his voice; "she was not mine." The older man rose and walked to the fire, where he stood looking down at the flaming coals. "After all," he said, "we are pretty much in the same plight. I knew her when her husband brought her here a bride, the loveliest creature alive. Arthur Fenton was a clever, selfish, wholly irreligious man; and I could not help seeing how completely he failed to understand or appreciate his wife. She was kind to me, and when her trouble came she turned to me for comfort and sympathy. It is my weakness that I love her; but she will never know it." "And does she love nobody?" demanded Ashe jealously.