"I don't say that, either," replied Sir Wilton, in studied tones.
"Then what do you say?"
"Less than anybody else, a good deal less," declared the squire. "I—I don't quite understand your tone, Musk, I must say; but I can well understand your position in this matter. It is unique, of course. So is mine, in a sense. But I must beg of you not to jump to conclusions. I am the last person to make a hero of the man I did my best to kick out of the parish five years ago; next to yourself, no one has reason to love the fellow less. I thought it a public scandal that he should be empowered to stay here against all our wills. My opinion of that whole black matter is absolutely and totally unchanged. But I do confess to you, Musk, that this last year or two have somewhat modified my opinion of the man himself."
Musk's eyes had never dropped or lifted from his visitor's face. Their expression was inscrutable. The iron cast of that massive countenance was the only key to the workings of the mind within: the lines seemed subtly emphasised, as in the faces of the dead. And his gigantic body was the same; only the eyes seemed alive; and they were as still as the rest of him.
"What if I've modified mine?"
Sir Wilton looked up quickly; for the habitual starer had been for once outstared. "Do you mean that you have?" cried he.
"I don't say as I have or I haven't. But that's a man, Sir Wilton, and I won't deny it."
"Exactly what everybody is saying. I say no more myself."
"And I won't say no less . . . Suppose you was to patch it up with him, Sir Wilton?"
"I should help him finish his church."