“There is no one to consult,” he returned. “If my father had lived, he, I think, would have bid me do as I am doing. It has helped me, to remember that.”
“I don’t think you appear to require consolation,” said Fanny airily, and hated herself for her cruelty. She used it as a spur, wanting him to say more, but he only answered—
“One should not.”
“You prefer to be a curate all your life?”
“Prefer? No. I am dishonest if I give you that impression, but in this case there was nothing else to be done.”
“I wonder how many people would have thought so! Well, as I have said more than once, you must please yourself. For the sake of a man whom you have never seen, and on account of a few quixotic scruples, you give up your own advancement, and disappoint all—all your friends.”
The words were indignant, but the voice trembled. He made a step towards her, checked himself, and drew back. The hand with which he grasped a chair tightened its hold as he said slowly—
“Try to think of me kindly.”
“You go back to Huntsdon?”
“For a time, a short time. Afterwards I shall look out for work in London.”