"
Father Rogan answered nothing. During the silence that succeeded, he
sat with a quiet expectation beaming in his full, lambent eye.
"If you would listen--" began Lorison. The priest held up his hand.
"As I hoped," he said. "I thought you would trust me. Wait but a
moment." He brought a long clay pipe, filled and lighted it.
"Now, my son," he said.
Lorison poured a twelve month's accumulated confidence into Father
Rogan's ear. He told all; not sparing himself or omitting the facts
of his past, the events of the night, or his disturbing conjectures
and fears.
"The main point," said the priest, when he had concluded, "seems to
me to be this--are you reasonably sure that you love this woman whom
you have married?"
"Why," exclaimed Lorison, rising impulsively to his feet--"why
should I deny it? But look at me--am fish, flesh or fowl? That is
the main point to me, I assure you."
"I understand you," said the priest, also rising, and laying down his
pipe. "The situation is one that has taxed the endurance of much
older men than you--in fact, especially much older men than you. I
will try to relieve you from it, and this night. You shall see for
yourself into exactly what predicament you have fallen, and how you
shall, possibly, be extricated.
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