Val was charming and—he would not have to face loneliness at Stear.
Indeed at one moment, it almost appeared as though Valeria would not be alone in accomplishing the destruction of the spirit of solitude at Stear.
Adrian Morchard sought his prospective brother-in-law, and said, with singularly ill-chosen colloquialism:
“Tell me, old thing, have you had any talk with the governor about that living at Stear?”
“Not yet. The present incumbent hasn’t even resigned.”
“I suppose—ha-ha—you’ll laugh—in fact I shouldn’t be surprised if you thought it dashed funny—it makes me smile myself, in a way—you’ll roar when I tell you what I’m thinking of.”
Quentillian felt as melancholy as do the majority of people thus apostrophised, and was aware that his melancholy was reflected on his face in a forbidding expression.
Adrian had turned rather pale.
“You know the old man’s always been desperately keen on my going into the Church? Well—I say, you can laugh as much as you want to, I shan’t be offended—I’m not at all sure I shan’t do it.”
Quentillian felt no inclination whatever to indulge in the prescribed orgy of merriment.