“I was very glad to see you there, Mr Trethick,” interposed the vicar, hastily.
“Thanks,” said Geoffrey, bluffly. “I shall come—sometimes. Don’t you set me down as a heathen. I went to the chapel in the evening.”
“Indeed!” said the vicar, gazing at him in a horrified way, his looks plainly saying—“You a University man, and go to that chapel!”
“Yes,” said Geoffrey, “and heard a capital sermon.”
“Indeed!” said the vicar again, with a slightly supercilious smile.
“Capital,” said Geoffrey, “by a miner—a rough fellow—one Pengelly.”
“Yes, yes. I know Amos Pengelly,” said Rhoda, hastily.
“Then you know a capital preacher, Miss Penwynn,” cried Geoffrey, nodding to her. “He’s as rough and uncultivated as can be—rather illogical sometimes; but the fellow’s earnestness, and the way he swayed the congregation, were something startling.”
“He is one of the local preachers,” said Rhoda, “and, I believe, a very good man.”
As she spoke Rhoda involuntarily glanced at her visitor’s feet.