“Are the woman,” he was going to say, but she held up a warning finger, and he heard a step at the door. It was the clergyman returning, and before Brant could add the word to which all the other words had been but the preface his chance was gone. The next moment Dorothy was introducing him to an elderly little man with a kindly face and a hand-clasp that spoke of warm friendships and a broad personality.
“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Brant—always glad to know any friend of Miss Dorothy’s. Sit down—sit down, both of you, and let us be comfortable.”
Brant obeyed, but Dorothy hesitated.
“I wanted to see you a moment about the Crowleys,” she said. “They are in trouble again, and this time it is beyond me. Mr. Brant wishes to see you about another matter, and if you can give me a minute——”
“Certainly, certainly; Mr. Brant will excuse us,” and they went apart to discuss the case of the unfortunate Crowleys, while Brant took up a book and pretended to read. Presently Dorothy took her leave, giving her hand to Brant at parting and inviting him to call soon at Hollywood.
He told no lie in saying that he should be glad to, and he tried to say with his eyes that other thing which had been denied lip utterance. Dorothy flushed faintly under his gaze and her hand trembled a little in his; whereupon he made bold to revert to the object of their common solicitude in another offer of assistance.
“About William: be sure to command me if I can ever help you again. I hope the occasion won’t arise, but if it does, you must manage to let me know at once.”
“Indeed I shall,” she rejoined gratefully. “But you must come to see us. Good-bye.”
When she was gone the clergyman drew up his chair opposite Brant’s. “A most devoted young woman,” he said with kindly emphasis. “I don’t know how we should get along in the parish without her. Have you known the Langfords long?”
“Not very long; no.”