Sam rubbed the back of his head and eyed Andy apologetically.
“It was a silly thing to say. But I had to say something. And it jumped out of itself.”
“It is a sad pity that lies should jump out so easily,” said Andy, trying to erase the memory of that unclerical laughter.
“It is, sir,” agreed Sam. “I’ve often thought so myself.”
After that Andy returned to the house and slept, and woke up stiff for evensong, and came back from the church to dress for dinner at the Stamfords’, where he had promised to go that evening.
It already seemed so long a time since he had talked to Elizabeth in the sunshine that he could scarcely believe it was only yesterday.
CHAPTER XIII
After the dull day and the storm a bright sun broke through the clouds and slanted in long mellow rays across the wet country. Every flower and herb gave out scent, and there was a sense of indescribable sweet freshness in the air as Andy stood at the gate leading into the Stamfords’ garden, and looked at the village through a gap in the trees.
The little whitewashed houses and red-brick ones, grown lovely with time, clustered together round the grey church among the trees, in a bower of small flowery gardens and climbing roses and honeysuckle. Andy saw then, why some poet once upon a time had looked at it so, and called it Gaythorpe: though the present generation jeered at the name being given to a place that was over three miles from a station and had no modern improvements.