“Blest if the old girl isn’t gone on me! How unpleasant!”
The attentions of certain elderly-young church workers in his late parish had paved the way for comprehension, and he comprehended. But though it was intensely annoying he did not feel it to be unnatural.
He was, of course, an attractive fellow.
That he had learned, too, in his late curacy, for before that he had been exceedingly doubtful of his own charms.
He went in to supper feeling annoyed with Mrs. Jebb, but rather sorry for her all the same. And after supper he strolled out into the garden, where twilight was falling and the young moon was rising above a bank of cloud. A feeling of loneliness drove him to the front gate, where he could watch the distant houses being lighted up, one after the other.
Homes—thought Andy. Places where people were trying—trying——
He could not get hold of the tail of the flying thought.
Then an oldish man passed, worn with long labour, most patient in the twilight.
The thought came near again, but not near enough, and Andy called out a friendly ‘Good-night.’ Then he added impulsively, because he somehow wanted to do something—he somehow felt ashamed before that plodding figure—“I say, will you have a cigar?”
The man stopped, stared, and replied bluntly—