“I have thought to get the better of my devil with prayer and fasting, but the old Adam is strong—terribly strong. When I saw my child—my little Valeria—her eyes wild, her person disordered, dashing upstairs as might a shamed creature, to hide itself—when I realized the depths of her dishonour—Owen, it was in me to have struck her. I could have raised my hand against my own child!”
His head sank upon his breast.
Quentillian waited before making a further, strangely inadequate, contribution to the conversation.
“Do you think, sir, perhaps you may be taking this too seriously?”
Canon Morchard stared at him. Then he smiled grimly.
“Generous—very generous, Owen. But I am to be deceived by no such feint. I, who have had the care of souls these thirty years! Do you think that, whatever front you may present to the world, my eyes—mine—are to be blinded? Do you think that I do not know that the iron has entered into your soul?”
The Canon’s eyes were so extraordinarily piercing as they gazed into Quentillian’s, that the object of his penetration sought in himself almost hopefully for some of the searing emotions attributed to him.
He discovered none.
Wounded in his vanity, annoyed, disappointed even,—but nothing more.
Owen, quite aware of futility, inwardly formed phrases of complete truthfulness, only to reject them.