He did not say, “I am sorry you were not at church,” as Ben Trawl pugnaciously expected.
Bayard led his guest upstairs, and shut and locked the study door.
“There!” he said faintly. “Now, George Fenton, talk! Tell me all about it. You can’t think how I am going to enjoy this! I wish I had an easy-chair for you. Will this rocker do? If you don’t mind, I think I’ll just lie down a minute.”
He flung himself heavily upon the old carpet-covered lounge. Fenton drew up the wooden rocking-chair to the cylinder stove, in which a low fire glimmered, and put his feet on top of the stove, after the manner of Cesarea and Galilee Hall.
“Well,” he began, in his own comfortable way, “I’ve accepted the call.”
“I supposed you would,” replied Bayard, “when I heard it was under way. I am glad of it!” he said cordially. “The First Church is a fine old church. You’re just the man for them. They’ll ordain you as easily as they swallow their native chowders. You came right over from their evening service to our place to-night? You must have hurried.”
“I did,” said the guest, with a certain air of condescension. “I wanted to hear you, you know—once, at least.”
“When you are settled, you can’t come, of course,” observed Bayard quickly. “I understand that.”
“Well—you see—I shall be—you know—in a very delicate position, when I become the pastor of that church.”
Fenton’s natural complacency forsook him for the instant, and something like embarrassment rested upon his easy face; he showed it by the way he handled Mrs. Granite’s poker.