“The temple. Oh, I forgot, the temple is—” and Charlie gave a description which need not be repeated.
Temple! temple! Where had he heard of a temple lately? Mr. Taylor cudgelled his brains. Why—why—yes, she had spoken of a temple. She said they met in a temple. It was a strange coincidence: the word had struck him at the time. But then everybody knows that, at a certain period, it was common enough to put up these little classical erections as a memorial or merely as an ornament to pleasure-grounds. It must be a mere coincidence. But—Mr. Taylor stopped short.
“What’s up?” asked Charlie, who had finished his narrative, and was now studying the faces of the ladies who rode past.
“Nothing,” answered Mr. Taylor.
And really it was not much—taken by itself, entirely unworthy of notice; even taken in conjunction with the temple, of no real significance, that he could see. Still, it was a whimsical thing that, as had just struck him, Charlie’s spectre should be named Agatha. But it came; to nothing: how could the name of Charlie’s spectre have anything to do with that of his penitent?
Presently Charlie, too, fell into silence. He beat his stick moodily against his leg and looked glum and absent.
“Ah, well,” he said at last, “poor Agatha was hardly used: she paid part of the debt we owe woman.”
Mr. Taylor raised his brows and smiled at this gloomily misogynistic sentiment. He had the perception to grasp in a moment what it indicated. His young friend was, or had lately been, or thought he was likely to be, a lover, and an unhappy one. But he did not press Charlie. Confessions were no luxury to him.
Presently they began to walk back, and Charlie, saying he had to dine with Victor Button, made an appointment to see Taylor again, and left him, striking across the Row. Taylor strolled on, and, finding Mrs. Marland still in her seat, sat down by her. She was surprised and pleased to hear that Charlie was in town.
“I left him at home in deep dumps. You’ve never been to Langbury Court, have you?”