"I think," said I, "that you have an obsession where that man is concerned. He is a disease with you. Good heaven, what could Inglesby possibly have to do with Mary Virginia's affairs?"
"That's what I'm wondering. Well, then, who is it?"
"Perhaps," said I, unwillingly, "it is Mary Virginia herself."
"Forget it! She's not that sort."
"She is a woman."
"Ain't it the truth, though?" he jeered. "What a peach of a reason for not acting like herself, looking like herself, being like herself! She's a woman! So are all the rest of the folks that weren't born men, if you'll notice. They're women; we're men: and both of us are people. Get it?"
"I get it," said I, annoyed. "Your attitude, John Flint, is a vulgar platitude. And permit me to—"
"I'll permit you to do anything except get cross," said he, quickly. The ghost of a smile touched his face. "Being bad-tempered, parson, suits you just about as well as plaid pants and a Hello Bill button."
"I am a human being," I began, frigidly.
"And I'm another. And so is Mary Virginia. And there we are, parson. I'm troubled. I don't like the looks of things. It's no use telling myself this is none of my business; it is very much my business. You remember ... when I came here ..." he hesitated, for this is a subject we do not like to discuss, "what you were up against ... parson, I've thought you must have been caught and crucified yourself, and learned things on the cross, and that's why you held on to me. But with the kids, it was different—particularly the little girl. The first thing I ever got from her was a lovely look, the first time ever I set eyes on her she came with an underwing moth. I'd be a poor sort that wouldn't be willing to be spilt like water and scattered like dust, if she needed me now, wouldn't I?"