He relapsed into a day-dream, from which he was aroused only by the soft flutter of gowns and laces as the women rose to go. There was a momentary disarrangement of seats. Gilbert Deyes, who was on the other side of the table, rose, and carrying his glass in his hand, came deliberately round to the vacant seat by the young man’s side. In his evening clothes, the length and gauntness of his face and figure seemed more noticeable than ever. His skin was dry, almost like parchment, and his eyes by contrast appeared unnaturally bright. His new neighbour noticed, too, that the glass which he carried so carefully contained nothing but water.
“I will come and talk to you for a few minutes, if I may,” Deyes said. “I leave the Church and agriculture to hobnob. Somehow I don’t fancy that as a buffer I should be a success.”
Young Hurd smiled amiably. He was more than a little flattered.
“The Archdeacon,” he remarked, “is not an inspiring neighbour.”
Deyes lit one of his own cigarettes and passed his case.
“I have found the Archdeacon very dull,” he admitted—“a privilege of his order, I suppose. By the bye, you are having a dose of religion from a new source hereabouts, are you not?”
“You mean this young missioner?” Hurd inquired doubtfully.
Deyes nodded.
“I was with our hostess when he came up to ask for the loan of a barn to hold services in. A very queer sort of person, I should think?”