But three years' practice in London had somewhat strained the faith of the young devotee.
He soon found himself in the painful position of a priest who no longer believes in his deity; overheard himself asking whether health was not an unattainable ideal; then declaring that life itself was all a matter of compromise; finally coming to the conclusion that the soul of things was Neurosis.
Beyond that he refused to commit himself to any theory of the universe.
He even made himself unpleasant.

A clerical patient would approach him with conciliatory breadth, and say: "I envy you, Cautley; I envy your marvellous experience.

Your opportunities are greater than mine.

And sometimes, do you know, I think you see deeper into the work of the Maker." And Cautley would shrug his shoulders and smile in the good man's face, and say, "The Maker! I can only tell you I'm tired of mending the work of the Maker." Yet the more he doubted the harder he worked; though his world spun round and round, shrieking like a clock running down, and he had persuaded himself that all he could do was to wind up the crazy wheels for another year or so.

Which all meant that Cautley was working a little too hard and running down himself.