Scott Brenton, however, did not appear to find it so. Too simple-minded and downright to obtrude his personal history, he also was too simple-minded to conceal it.
"I should have kept on with it, at any cost," he answered; "only for the sake of my mother. She was a widow without much money; she was giving all she had to educate me, and her heart was set on—something else."
If Olive noted the little pause, she had at least the super-feminine tact to ignore it.
"Your priesthood?"
He nodded slowly.
"After a fashion,—yes."
This time, the pause seemed to her entirely natural.
"She must be very happy now," she answered. "Saint Peter's is a dear old church, mellow enough in its traditions to make up for its hopelessly new architecture; and I am sure you'll love this sleepy town."
But it was plain to her that Brenton, quite oblivious to her words, was pursuing his own train of thought. Out of it he spoke.
"My mother died, two years ago, Miss Keltridge."