Many a man under the circumstances would have felt, though he might have shown no sign of it, some slight embarrassment, the result of the old cant “guilty conscience” again. Not so this one. He had rather a poor opinion of the fair sex, and although Olive Ingelow had attracted—partially fascinated him, to an extent which no one had ever succeeded in doing yet, and which he would not own even to himself—for all that, he could not be otherwise than perfectly at his ease in her presence, even under such circumstances as these.
“Well, Miss Olive,” he said lightly, as they met. “On charity bent, I see. Much too fine a day for any such dismal errand.”
“There’s such a thing as duty, Mr Dorrien,” put in Turner, in a tone meant to convey a lofty rebuke, but which only struck the other as divertingly bumptious. “And the parish has to be looked after, and our people must be visited, one might suppose.”
“Oh—ah, I see—quite so?” asserted Roland, placidly and with a stare, as if he had just become aware of the curate’s presence. “And I am sure, my dear sir, that no one performs that onerous task more assiduously and efficiently than yourself.”
The curate bit his lip with suppressed ire. Here was a man whom it was not safe to snub, whom, in fact, it was not possible to snub. Olive, meanwhile, struggled hard to conceal her mirth under cover of somewhat exuberantly caressing Roy.
“Well, good-bye, Mr Dorrien,” she exclaimed, with a bright, mischievous smile. “Duty calls; and that ‘dismal errand’ must be proceeded with.”
“I never did take to that man,” remarked Turner, as they resumed their way. “I don’t care how little I see of him, in fact. The Dorriens are a bad stock, and sooner or later this one will prove himself no exception to the rule, mark my words.”
“I don’t see why you should be so uncharitable,” retorted Olive. “We all think Mr Dorrien particularly nice. How can he help his family being detestable?”
A pertinent question enough, but hardly calculated to soothe the pious young apostle at her side. Rumour credited Turner with more than a friendly regard for his chief’s second daughter, and for once in a way Rumour was right. But as to whether the penchant was reciprocated by its object or no, rumour was divided in opinion, the balance of the said division being on the negative side.
“He can’t help that perhaps,” said Turner shortly. “But the man himself is objectionable. A scoffer, and I strongly suspect, an out-and-out infidel.”