“I do for tennis, but one can’t call on one’s parishioners in flannels; they’d think it casual and disrespectful.”
“So they would. Well, you must dree your weird!” Mary spoke lightly, but for the minister her last words had an ominous sound.
Presently they all halted “to give the bicycles a feed” as the Duke put it—the fact being that they had arrived at the foot of what was for Fife a very steep hill. The day was hot, and they had six more miles to do before they reached the East Neuk, whither they were escorting the Duke. Grass and the shade of trees looked inviting. Mary and the minister decided to rest, but the energetic Duke went off on an exploring expedition in an adjacent wood.
The minister and Mary sat quite silent for some minutes; then Mary said slowly:
“Mrs. Urquhart told you of my great trouble six years ago. I am glad. I wanted you to know, and I wanted you to know that I am glad.” Her voice was very soft, her eyes were bent on the grass.
Andrew Methven looked at her but he did not speak.
She looked up a little surprised, and saw his face working strangely. She understood.
“Don’t try to say anything,” she said, laying her hand on his arm. “You are sorry. You are a good friend of mine.”
Somehow the touch of the little gloved hand on his arm made the minister lose his head. He did not attempt to hold it in his own—his reverence for her was too great for that—but he told her simply and forcibly what he felt for her. She did not try to stop him. The sunshine and the summer had got into her blood, and this worship that was offered to her was sweet and precious. There was nothing ridiculous in it, nothing impossible. He did not ask her to be his wife; in his wildest dreams of happiness he had never reckoned on the possibility of that. He did not ask to be anything to her; all he told her was what she was to him.
And in the very middle of it all the Duke came back, saying: