But why should he know? Why should he think that? Had it been that poor charwoman--oh, yes. But--she looked at his serviceable blue serge suit, compared it instinctively with the luxury of her heavy fur coat--why should he think that of her?
"I don't see why I should accept your generosity," she whispered.
He smiled.
"I offer it to St. Joseph," said he.
She took up the candle.
"I shouldn't be surprised if he found your offering the more acceptable of the two."
He watched her light it; he watched her place it in an empty socket. He noticed her hands--delicate--white--fingers that tapered to the dainty finger nails. What could it have been that she had been praying for?
"Well--I don't suppose St. Joseph is very particular," he said with a humorous twist of the lip.
"Don't you? Poor St. Joseph!"
She crossed herself and turned away from the altar.