Then the curate said the most difficult thing he had said yet:—
"I shall have to go away from here."
Eileen's hand turned cold in his.
"Why?" she whispered; but she knew.
"Because if we wait here we shall wait forever. The last curate in Much Moreham—what happened to him?"
"He died."
"Yes—at fifty-five; and he had been here for thirty years. Preferment does not come in sleepy villages. I must go back to London."
"The East End?"
"East or south or north—it doesn't signify. Anywhere but west. In the east and south and north there is always work to be done—hard work. And if a parson has no money and no brains and no influence, and can only work—run clothing clubs and soup kitchens, and reclaim drunkards—London is the place for him. So off I go to London, my beloved, to lay the foundations of Paradise for you and me—for you and me!"
There was a long silence. Then the pair rose to their feet and smiled on each other extremely cheerfully, because each suspected the other—rightly—of low spirits.