“Andrew Bolton came to see me in the parsonage this morning. He is a ruined man, in every sense of the word. He will never be otherwise.”
Jim Dodge thrust both hands deep in his trousers’ pockets, his eyes fixed and frowning.
“Well,” he murmured; “what of that?”
“That being the case, all we can do is to make the best of things—for her.... She requested me to make the facts known in the village. They would have found out everything from the man himself. He is—perhaps you are aware that Bolton bitterly resents his daughter’s interference. She would have been glad to spare him the pain of publicity.”
The minister’s tone was calm, even judicial; and Jim Dodge suddenly experienced a certain flat humiliation of spirit.
“I didn’t know she asked you to tell,” he muttered, kicking a pebble out of the way. “That puts a different face on it.”
He eyed the minister steadily.
“I’ll be hanged if I can make you out, Elliot,” he said at last. “You can’t blame me for thinking— Why did you come here this afternoon, anyway?”
A sudden belated glimmer of comprehension dawned upon the minister.
“Are you in love with Miss Orr?” he parried.