"Well; as far as the curacy is concerned, of course he can refuse his licence."
"I have not the slightest intention of applying to his lordship for a licence."
This the usher said with a tone of self-assertion which grated a little on the Doctor's ear, in spite of his good-humour towards the speaker. "I don't want to go into that," he said. "A man never can say what his intentions may be six months hence."
"But if I were to refuse to speak of my life in America," said Mr. Peacocke, "and thus to decline to comply with what I must confess would be no more than a rational requirement on your part, how then would it be with myself and my wife in regard to the school?"
"It would make no difference whatever," said the Doctor.
"There is a story to tell," said Mr. Peacocke, very slowly.
"I am sure that it cannot be to your disgrace."
"I do not say that it is,—nor do I say that it is not. There may be circumstances in which a man may hardly know whether he has done right or wrong. But this I do know,—that, had I done otherwise, I should have despised myself. I could not have done otherwise and have lived."
"There is no man in the world," said the Doctor, earnestly, "less anxious to pry into the secrets of others than I am. I take things as I find them. If the cook sends me up a good dish I don't care to know how she made it. If I read a good book, I am not the less gratified because there may have been something amiss with the author."
"You would doubt his teaching," said Mr. Peacocke, "who had gone astray himself."