“How foolish of me! But I have become so attached to Gaythorpe. I am so delighted that our little misunderstanding has been cleared up. I am so glad you spoke candidly, Mr. Deane. I hope you always will in future if there is any little matter you don’t like.”
And she tripped into the hall with something of her old airiness.
An hour later Andy was bending over the plantains on the lawn in the front part of the garden, facing the road, and two women passed by on the other side of the hedge without seeing him.
“Nice house, I allus think.”
“Yes. Rare thing being Parson Andy.” Then they passed on, and their Vicar saw through a hole in the hedge that it was the meek and respectful Mrs. Burt who had spoken.
He ground his teeth. Parson Andy, indeed! Then the undignified abbreviation was going to dog him to his dying day.
It was the last straw—he flung down his spud and stalked into the house.
Nothing in life is more interesting and queer than the way in which every trifling event fits into and influences the rest.
For instance—Andy fell in love.