These surroundings were more congenial to him in his present state of mind than the dingy parsonage. "I will come back, thank you," he said, and, hurrying from the house, he went down the road at a swinging gait.
Miss Gastonguay, with her little manly swagger, followed him to the big hall door. "Chelda, that man does not seem happy lately."
"Perhaps he is working too hard."
"He isn't in love with you, is he?" asked Miss Gastonguay, sharply.
Chelda discreetly lowered her eyes. "I don't know."
"You wouldn't marry him if he were. You are too fond of your own comfort to tie yourself to a poor clergyman."
"You are right, aunt, I shall never marry a clergyman."
"I believe," continued Miss Gastonguay, in a puzzled voice, "that he likes to come to this house. He once told me that it reminded him of his father's house on the Hudson. Have they ever forgiven him for turning parson, do you know?"
"No; his father has cut him out of his will, and has requested him not to go home."
"A cold-hearted money-bags, nourished on the milk of Wall Street. Chelda, do you believe that among foreign aristocracy there is half the scorn for the lowly born, the toiling poor, that there is among our so-called American aristocrats?"