“Only my humble trust that a priest may be blessed in his appeal to duty even where a father’s appeal to natural affection has been disregarded.”
“Well, well,” said Conolly, kindly, rising as his visitor disconsolately prepared to go, “you can try. I got on by dint of dogged faith in myself.”
“And I get on by lowly faith in my Master. I would I could imbue you with the same feeling!”
Conolly shook his head; and they went downstairs in silence. “Hallo!” said he, as he opened the door, “it is raining. Let me lend you a coat.”
“Thank you, no. Not at all. Good-night,” said the clergyman, quickly, and hastened away through the rain from Conolly’s civilities.
When he arrived at Westbourne Terrace, there was a cab waiting before the house. The door was opened to him by Marian’s maid, who was dressed for walking.
“Master is in the drawing-room, sir, with Miss McQuinch,” she said, meaning, evidently, “Look out for squalls.”
He went upstairs, and found Elinor, with her hat on, standing by the pianoforte, with battle in her nostrils. Mr. Lind, looking perplexed and angry, was opposite to her.
“George,” said Mr. Lind, “close the door. Do you know the latest news?”
“No.”