“Yes?” And Mr. Egerton smiled as one who is giving checkmate.
“Because you were Jacob's friend, and the only man he... loved, and because, although we have quarrelled several times, and I have been very rude to you once or twice, still”—and a smile brought Mrs. Arkwright's face to perfection—“we are friends also.”
“You have been... angry with me,” said Egerton, “when I could not understand the reason, but I never doubted your friendship. If I were in serious trouble, I would come to you rather than to any man.”
“Would you really?” Then her tone changed.
“I don't believe you, for you would go to some snuffy, maundering old minister.”
“And you are good,” he insisted, taking no notice of her petulance. “You are honest, and brave, and high-minded, and loyal, and...”
“Pious, with a gift of prayer, you had better add. How blind you are, for all your knowledge and... other qualities. You forgot to add sweet-tempered; but perhaps you were coming to that.”
“No, I would not say that, and I am rather glad you are not gentle,”—the minister was very bold,—“for you would not be... yourself.”
“You had your suspicions, then, and are not sure that I am ready for canonising? Do you know I feel immensely relieved; suppose we celebrate this confession by tea? Would you ring the bell, Mr. Egerton?”
“There is something I want to talk about, and as it's rather important, would you mind, Mrs. Arkwright, giving me a few minutes first? Tea is rather distracting.”