They were sitting side by side on the grass and the curate was holding Eileen's hand.
Excalibur advanced on them thankfully and indicated by an ingratiating smile that a friendly remark or other recognition of his presence would be gratefully received; but neither took the slightest notice of him. They continued to gaze straight before them in a mournful and abstracted fashion. They looked not so much at Excalibur as through him. First the hare, then Eileen and the curate! Excalibur began to fear that he had become invisible, or at least transparent. Greatly agitated he drifted away into a neighboring plantation full of young pheasants. Here he encountered a keeper, who was able to dissipate his gloomy suspicions for him without any difficulty whatsoever. But Eileen and the curate sat on.
"A hundred pounds a year!" repeated the curate. "A pass degree and no influence! I can't preach and I have no money of my own. Dearest, I ought never to have told you."
"Told me what?" inquired Eileen softly. She knew quite well; but she was a woman, and a woman can never let well enough alone.
The curate, turning to Eileen, delivered himself of a statement of three words. Eileen's reply was a softly whispered Tu quoque!
"It had to happen, dear," she added cheerfully, for she did not share the curate's burden of responsibility in the matter. "If you had not told me we should have been miserable separately. Now that you have told me, we can be miserable together. And when two people who—who—" She hesitated.
The curate supplied the relative sentence. Eileen nodded her head in acknowledgment.
"Yes; who are—like you and me—are miserable together, they are happy! See?"
"I see," said the curate gravely. "Yes, you are right there; but we can't go on living on a diet of joint misery. We shall have to face the future. What are we going to do about it?"