‘Five minutes’ time from now.’
The jaunty airs and scornful disregard began to warm Thistlewood’s blood a little.
‘Canst look a man i’ the face when thee talk’st to him? ‘he asked.
‘Yes, bless your heart and soul alive!’ cried Lane, swaggering round and beaming on him.
For half a minute they looked at each other, the one angry, resolute, and lowering, with head bent a little forward, his glance directed upward past his down-drawn brows, the other smiling with seeming sweetness and gaiety.
Thistlewood seemed to restrain himself with something of an effort.
‘We’ll talk together by and by,’ he said, and turning, deliberately walked back into the churchyard.
For a few seconds Lane stood glorying, but on a sudden it occurred to him that his rival was behaving in a more dignified manner than himself, and this was a reflection not to be endured without instant action. So he marched back into the churchyard also, and left John in the foreground. When Bertha appeared her elder lover paid his respects first, and Lane came up afterwards, looking, as she remembered later on, prodigiously gloomy and resolved.
The bell had been silent for a minute, and the curate’s voice had begun to drone within the building. The rivals were alone, and nobody was within sight or earshot.
‘Shall we walk a pace or two, Mr. Protheroe?’ asked John.