Finally, he got up from the tombstone and walked towards the church, and round the corner of the porch he heard the voices of two women near a grave.
“Churchyard grass wants cutting,” said one.
“Oh, the parson’ll see to it,” said the other. “He does look after the bit there is to do, does Parson Andy.”
And the poor lad went in, comforted still further by the warm, motherly note in the woman’s voice as she said ‘Parson Andy.’ He had come down low enough—or gone up high enough—to be grateful that the people of Gaythorpe called him ‘Parson Andy.’
About the same time Elizabeth and Norah Atterton went across the lawn towards the house in order to dress for dinner. Some of the guests had stayed, so there was not much time, but Norah had something to say, and when she had something to say she said it.
“The Deane females were quaint,” she remarked.
“They are called Dixon and Webster,” replied Elizabeth—but it must be owned that a great deal more was said than the words indicated.
“Has Lady Jones a daughter? If so, Mr. Deane really ought——”
“How vulgar you can be,” said Elizabeth. “You talk as if Mr. Deane were a mere fortune-hunter——”
“Of course he is,” said Norah calmly. “All clergymen are. They have to be.”