"Hello, Jude," he called without getting up. "Step in; I'll fetch a light."
"How did you know 'twas me?" Jude asked from the outer darkness. The salutation made him feel anew the awe of constant supervision.
"I thought you'd drop in," Gaston carried the lamp into the living room and set it upon the table.
Jude shambled in, drew a chair up to the table and sat down. Gaston took his place opposite and kept his eyes upon his caller. Jude grew restless under the calm inspection. He had come with a goodly stock of self-assertion and sudden-gained dignity, but they withered under the inquiring gaze.
"You've come from Joyce Birkdale's? I congratulate you, Jude."
So he knew that too! Jude felt a superstitious aversion to this man he had but recently begun to have any feeling toward whatever outside the ordinary give and take of village life.
Over the ground he had come laboriously to discuss, Gaston strode with unerring instinct. There were no words ready for this friendly advance, so Jude halted. He had meant to approach the announcement of his engagement to Joyce by telling Gaston what he had seen from the hilltop that afternoon and what he had gained since, and then he had intended, in man-fashion, to warn Gaston off his preserves. Instead, he sat twirling his cap and foolishly staring.
"Smoke?" Gaston felt his guest's discomfort and tried to ease the strain. He pushed the tobacco-jar forward; no St. Angé man ever travelled without his own pipe.
"Given it up," muttered Jude, "and cards likewise, and—and drink; I'm going to get married right away."
This was rather startling. Gaston had expected some faltering on Joyce's part, some dallying with the past. The smoke of his burning bridges was still in Gaston's consciousness. He had lighted the fuse, to be sure, but had not expected the demoralization to be so prompt.