There was a mixture of admiration and distrust in his eyes.
“By George, what a woman!” said he. “Gad, I’m glad I am not her Adam, anyhow!”
Then his glance grew veiled, as it fixed itself upon an inward thought, and a slow complacent smile crept upon his face.
CHAPTER III
STRAWS ON THE WIND
... I feel my genial spirits droop,
My hopes all flat....
—Milton (Samson Agonistes).
“I never heard you, my dear Doctor, preach better!” said Madam Tutterville.
But the worthy lady’s countenance was overcast as she spoke; and the hands which were smoothing and folding the surplice that the parson had just laid aside were shaking. The reverend Horatio turned upon his spouse with a philosophic smile. The lady did not use to seek him thus in the sacristy after service unless something in the Sunday congregation seemed to call for her immediate comment. On this particular morning he well knew where the thorn pricked; for he himself, mounting to the pulpit with the consciousness of an extra-polished discourse awaiting that choice Oxford delivery which had so rare a chance of being appreciated, had not seen without a pang of vexation that the Bindon House pew was empty save for its usual occupant—Mrs. Marvel. Having promptly overcome his small weakness and proceeded with his sermon with all the eloquence he would have bestowed on the expected cultivated, or at least fashionable, audience, he was now all the more ready to banter his wife upon her distress.
“What is the matter, dear Sophia?”