‘Will you not come to-morrow?’ added Father Somerville.
‘Thank you. I shall be glad to do so.’
‘That is well. Then, auf Wiedersehen!’
He lifted his hat, and was gone. Jerome entered the house, and found Nita standing at the window of the larger parlour, motionless, her eyes fixed upon the retreating figure of the priest in his long black soutane. Speedwell, his forepaws upon the window-ledge, looked too. Nita did not hear Jerome. She was too absorbed in her watch, but as he entered, he saw her pat her dog’s head and heard a low ‘Ss -s!’ from her lips.
‘Miss Bolton!’ he exclaimed, in astonishment, while Speedwell’s low, thunderous growl was exchanged for two deep, angry barks.
Nita started, turned, and laughed.
‘Are you shocked?’ she said. ‘I do so hate that man. I call him the “Polished Panther.” I should not wish to be rude to him if he is a friend of yours, but for myself, I cannot stand him, and that is all about it.’
‘I can hardly call him a friend, though he is an old acquaintance. Do you know what post he has at Brentwood?’
‘Oh, you know they go through a course. They don’t keep on teaching the same thing. I heard the other day that he was teaching history—Jesuit history, of course, which proves beyond dispute that the Jesuits always have been right, ever since the first one first founded the order, and that everyone else always has been and will be wrong. That is what Father Somerville is teaching at present, I believe.’
‘You speak with heat, and surely with a little prejudice,’ said he, smiling, but—insensibly it seemed—his manner towards her had changed, had taken a shade more of interest, of familiarity; there was a subtle difference both in his feelings towards her, and the behaviour which expressed those feelings. ‘Father Somerville is an accomplished——’