“This time, my father is here to welcome you.”
She turned round, and Quentillian saw the Canon.
“Ah, dear fellow! Welcome—welcome you be, indeed!”
A hand grasped Quentillian’s hand, an arm was laid across his shoulders, and the Canon’s full, hearty voice, very deep and musical, rang in his ears.
Quentillian felt inadequate.
With all the acute self-consciousness of the modern, he was perfectly aware that Canon Morchard’s warmth of feeling and ardour of demonstration awoke in himself nothing but a slight, distinctly unpleasant, sensation of gratitude, and a feeble fear of appearing as unresponsive as he felt.
“I think it’s the same Owen Quentillian, isn’t it?”
The steady pressure of the Canon’s arm compelled his unwilling returned prodigal to remain still, facing him, and submit to a scrutiny from kind, narrowed eyes.
“Just the same. All is well—well, indeed.”
The Canon’s hand smote Quentillian gently between the shoulders, as they walked down the platform.