"But if one can combine both," said Chelda; "it is possible."
"The question is to know your duty," he replied.
"It is our duty to be happy," said the young lady, blandly, yet with a certain boldness.
The clergyman looked straight into her eyes. They were wide open. Their usual filmy appearance was gone. What he saw seemed to fascinate and yet repel him, for with his hands he made a gesture as if he would be gone, yet his feet still lingered.
Miss Gastonguay's abrupt voice disenchanted him. "Come back to lunch, Mr. Huntington. I daresay you are taking your Monday walk in this direction."
He started slightly. "I am, yet I thought of returning to my study."
He had retreated toward the door, but the young lady moved a step toward him. "How devoted you are to that desk of yours. How you must miss your former life of freedom."
The cloud on his brow grew more heavy, and seeing it, Miss Gastonguay exclaimed, hospitably, "Let the musty old Negus books alone, and go take your constitutional on the river road. Then after lunch Chelda will drive you in town and make her call on your friend, the bride. You will, won't you, Chelda?"
"Certainly," said the young lady, sweetly, but without eagerness.
The clergyman flashed one rapid glance about the quiet elegance of the room, and another at his eccentric and unconventional hostess and her graceful niece.