But that was not what he meant to say, nor what Andy understood. He intended to convey to his Vicar the strange comradeship which binds all men together against all women. And the hand-shake they exchanged was a final expression of this bond.
For it is ridiculous to pretend that spoken words are so tremendously important, and that they alone bridge the blank space between one soul and another; they cast a line, as it were, but souls cross always in silence. The intrinsic part of every conversation is without words, which, if you think of it, becomes very comforting. It shows that our souls are not so lonely as we feared, and that they have a language which even death need not cause us to forget.
So Andy went back to his study full of the things that Mr. Thorpe had never said, and the churchwarden plodded sedately down the road mentally patting his Vicar on the back for remarks he had never made; and they both felt pleased with themselves, and each other—which is not a bad result for any conversation to have.
Andy pulled out a few sheets of foolscap, and began to write one of those articles which were sometimes accepted, when Mrs. Jebb came in to apologise about the asparagus.
“I’m sorry,” she said with mournful dignity, “but it is my misfortune and not my fault that my youth was not passed in circles where asparagus can be afforded.”
“Never mind,” said Andy. “I’m sure they enjoyed the party.”
Mrs. Jebb pursed her lips together and approached mysteriously.
“One thing,” she said in a low voice, “strikes me as very strange. The bones!”
“What bones?” said Andy, bending over the foolscap. “I’m rather busy just now, Mrs. Jebb, so if——”
“I and Sophy have searched the dining-room. Then a cat occurred to our minds.”