“Things are not always what they seem,” said the young man. “The wisdom of countless ages is in that frail casket.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” said the vicar sharply.
“Many a saint, many a hero, is borne on the wings of a dove.”
“Transcendental rubbish.” The vicar mopped his face with his handkerchief, and then he began: “Smith”—he was too angry to use the man’s Christian name—“my daughter tells me you have been blasphemous.”
The young man, who still wore the white feather in his coat, looked at the angry vicar with an air of gentle surprise.
“Please don’t deny it,” said the vicar, taking silence for a desire to rebut the charge. “She has repeated to me word for word your mocking speech when you put that symbol of cowardice in your buttonhole.”
John Smith looked at the vicar with his deep eyes and then he said slowly and softly: “If my words have hurt her I am very sorry.”
This speech, in spite of its curious gentleness, added fuel to the vicar’s anger.
“The humility you affect does not lessen their offense,” he said sharply.
“Where lies the offense you speak of?” The question was asked simply, with a grave smile.