Christie Bayle shook his head sadly.
“No, Sir Gordon,” he said, with a curious, wistful look coming into his eyes. “That would be too painful—too full of sad memories.”
“Pooh! nonsense, man! You can’t be a curate all your life.”
“Why not? I do not want the payment of a better post in the Church.”
“Of course not; but come, say ‘Yes.’ As to memories, fudge! man, you have your memories everywhere. If you were out in Australia you’d have them, same as I dare say a friend of ours has. Let the past go.”
Bayle shook his head.
“I’m thinking of settling down yonder myself. Getting too old for sea-trips. If you’d come down, that would decide me.”
“No, no. It would never do. I could not leave town.”
“Ah, so you pretend, sir. I’ll be bound that, if you had a good motive, you’d be off anywhere, in spite of what you say.”
“Perhaps. Your motive is not strong enough.”