But behind the Judge's conciliatory words was a secret resolve merely to wait for a more propitious moment and then to reopen the discussion--with a tact, of course, acquired by experience. So, after a desultory discourse, in which he touched upon a number of obviously unimportant matters, and during which the younger man was uniformly silent, he renewed his circuitous attack. He tried very hard to be calm and judicial, but Imrie's taciturn antagonism quite overthrew his poise. And when the clergyman remained obdurate to all his subtlest questions and cajoleries and indisputable logic, the Judge lost his temper. "You're an obstinate ass," he almost shouted. "There's no doubt of it," said Imrie quietly. There was of course nothing more to be said after that, so they parted, the Judge to spread the news of the incredible stubbornness of the clergyman, and Imrie to a miserable walk, alone. He was wretched, of course. He knew perfectly well what the outcome of his folly might be. But counteracting his regret at that, was a glorious feeling of achievement, of having conquered the devil in a pitched battle, and of having emerged with no stain on his shield. To all the world, _Don Quixote_, slaying windmills, was an "obstinate ass," but to _Don Quixote_ he was a hero. Imrie's feelings, as he battled with the wind, were a curious complex of dejection and triumph. When he returned to his rooms, he found a message from Judith, insisting upon his presence at supper that evening. For a little he debated the acceptance of the invitation. He felt reluctant at facing her. He wondered what she would think of him. He feared that she might doubt his sincerity. But he also had a powerful curiosity as to what she would say, and her verdict was of more importance to him than that of all the vestries in the land. He decided to go. She greeted him with greater enthusiasm than she had ever before manifested toward him. "It was wonderful, Arnold, wonderful. I never guessed it was in you. I can't tell you how proud I was of you. It was a splendid sermon--it was splendid courage. It was--if only I had the words...." "You don't need words," he said softly, taking her hands into his, and looking tenderly into her eyes. She continued to pour oil on his troubled soul, but she withdrew her hands, and not again did she allow herself to come so close to him. He felt vaguely disappointed, even in the midst of her praise. "I am so humiliated for what I said to you last week," she cried. "It was what made--this," he said simply. Suddenly her gaze went beyond him, and he followed it to the doorway. His face clouded. A gust of annoyance swept him for Judith, for this trick she had played him. It was unfair of her thus to force him to meet a man she knew he detested. But his irritation changed to surprise, when Good, with his long awkward stride, hurried toward him, and seized his hand.