"I do wish that he could hear Matherson."
When either spoke indefinitely now, the other knew that Hilary Woodrow was meant.
"I believe he'd come if you made a favour of it," she answered.
"I'd ask minister to do something out of the common. Not that he don't put every ounce of his power into his preaching every week. But if I said 'Here's a soul coming to listen to you as be wandering—lost,' minister might be lifted to something special."
"He'd come for you."
"For you more likely. 'Twould be worth the effort before he goes away, for 'tis pretty certain now he won't stop here through winter. He's going to London again, just for the day, to hear what the doctor says. He's better, I believe myself. There's been a lot more heart and life in him of late, to my mind."
"You're going in to-night to have a pipe along with him, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am."
"Then ask him—as a favour to you—to come to a service. Can't hurt him—so large-minded as he is—blames nobody."
"I'll ask him—and yet, I won't. He knows there'd be such a lot of meaning in it if I asked him. He'd think 'twas a deep-laid plot against his opinions. You ask him next time you see him. Say that you'd like him to hear Mr. Matherson. Let the thing come as a surprise, not a planned attack. If I say anything, he'll know he's to be preached at, and that would anger him. But you're lighter-handed. You ban't so deadly in earnest as I am."