“‘I think not,’ I heard the man say presently. ‘I am really not sufficiently interested in myself. Though—’ and then, Trix dear, he half stopped, and his voice altered in the queerest way,—‘the fact that you have shown interest enough to ask me to do so, has, curiously enough, made me feel quite a good deal more important in my own eyes.’
“‘You refused my friendship,’ I heard Pia say, and her voice shook a little.
“‘I did,’ said the man in rather a stern voice.
“Again, Trix dear, there was a little silence. Then Pia said:
“‘I don’t intend again to offer a thing that has once been rejected. I shall never do that. But because we once were friends, or at all events, fancied ourselves friends, I do ask you to see Doctor Hilary. That is all.’
“She must have turned from him at once, because she came into the church, and went up the aisle to her own chair. She knelt down, and put her hands over her eyes; and, Trix dearest, she was crying. I am crying now when I think about it, so forgive the blots on the paper. A minute later I heard the door open and shut again, so I knew the man had gone. I got up as softly as I could, and slipped out of the church. It would never have done for Pia to see me, and I was so thankful to St. Peter for hiding me.
“Well, my dear Trix, wasn’t it amazing? And one of the most amazing things was that the man’s voice and way of speaking was quite educated, not the least as one would suppose a gardener would speak.
“I went to the post-office and bought some stamps, though I really had plenty at home, and loitered about for nearly a quarter of an hour. Then I thought I had better go and find Pia. I met her coming out of the church. She was very pale; but she smiled, and wanted to know where I’d been, and I told her to the post-office. And then we drove home together. Pia laughed and chatted all the way, while my heart was in a big lump in my throat, and I could hardly keep from crying, like the foolish old woman that I am. I ought to have been talking, and helping Pia to pretend.
“She has been quite gay all to-day, and oddly gentle too. But you know the kind of gayness. And to-night my heart feels like breaking for her, for there is some sad mystery I can’t fathom. So, Trix dearest, I have written to you, because I cannot keep it all to myself. And I am crying again now, though I know I oughtn’t to. So I am going to leave off, and say the rosary instead.
“Good night, my dear Trix.