‘A good fellow enough, and liberal minded. I have encountered him once or twice on local business. But a girl like Miss Bolton wants something more than a good fellow for a husband—something different, at least. She lives alone, reads novels and poetry, has known Mr. Leyburn all her life, while you—bah! my dear sir, the idea of a rivalry is absurd.’
‘Your imagination is vivid. I say again, it is out of the question. No. Wellfield is gone from me, and I must abide without it as best I may.’
(‘A woman in the case, assuredly,’ thought the priest, ‘or he would never hesitate. No Wellfield ever did hesitate at so easy a means of making himself at ease again. It was honest work that always made that race kick and plunge.’)
Before he could speak aloud the gate had been opened, and Nita, accompanied by Speedwell, her mastiff, entered the garden.
‘We must drop that topic,’ murmured Somerville with a slight smile, as he bowed low to the girl, who returned the salutation very slightly, saying with marked coolness of manner to Jerome:
‘You are engaged, Mr. Wellfield. I am intruding, and will come another time.’
‘By no means,’ said Somerville, quickly. ‘I must go—I was on the point of taking leave.’
‘But I shall see you again,’ said Jerome.
‘Certainly, and often, if I consult my own inclination,’ said Somerville, with his strange, sweet smile. ‘Call at Brentwood, and ask for me at any hour after vespers, and I shall receive you with pleasure.’
Nita, followed by her dog, had walked into the house while these farewell amenities were taking place.