It was hard to refuse Imrie—a million times harder than all the rest
"But I thought ... the last time ..." he was saying. "It seemed as if ... there was more hope. And now ... it seems as if there was less. Why, my dearest? Have you changed? What have I done? What haven't I done? You seem further away from me now than ever ... won't you ever come to me ... is it always to be 'the desire of the moth for the star' ... please speak to me, darling ... please...."
His voice broke under the stress of his emotion. Never had she seen him so moved. She marvelled at it. She had a turbulent wish to ask him why he never lost himself like that in his pulpit—and immediately afterwards wondered where such an outrageous, irreverent thought could have come from. That was not like her. But she knew very well who it was like.
"Is there—someone else?"
The question made her start guiltily. She was glad that her face was in shadow.
"Was there?" she asked herself. Then the absurdity of the thought made her smile to herself.
"No," she said firmly. "There is no one else."
"Then perhaps...?" His voice trailed off.
"Yes," she said mechanically, as one who answered a question without hearing it, "perhaps."
They were silent, then, for a long time. Finally Imrie held out his hand. His face, clear in the moonlight, was drawn and seemed pallid. He was visibly affected.
"I'm sorry, Judith," he said, with a perceptible tremor in his voice, "but I can't help it. Sometime—perhaps...."
"Yes." Her eyes filled with tears again, and she dared not trust herself to speak. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck and comfort him. But she would do it as she would comfort Roger—and he would know that. So she held out her hand.
"I'm sorry, too, Arnold. But let us be the good friends we have always been, anyway."
She regretted that, as she saw him wince. It was not friendship that he wanted. But she forced herself to finish in that key. It was safest.
"I hope the plans for the new church are getting on famously?"
"Yes," he said apathetically. "It's doing very well."
"You must bring out the sketches and let me see them. I'm tremendously interested."
"I will—mail them to you," he said heavily. Slowly, as if reluctant, he took her hand again, held it just a moment, and then, with a suddenness that overwhelmed her, seized her in his arms and kissed her hotly on the lips. Then, like a shadow, he fled.
For a long time after he had gone Judith sat on the balustrade, listening to the myriad noises of the night, and pondering on what had befallen her. It had been a very eventful day. She smiled as she pondered on its contrasts. But she sobered as she thought of Imrie. She felt her cheek grow warm as she recalled his kiss. Then a faint smile widened her lips at the impetuosity of it. It was so unlike him. He had never shown such—she knew he would call it disrespect—but that was not the word she would use. She hoped he would not apologise. That would spoil it all. Perhaps—if he were a little less respectful....
She could love Imrie the man, she reflected, as she walked slowly into the house. But Imrie the clergyman—she knew for a certainty that that was impossible.