“They’re fairly stuffing,” he complained. “And, anyway, there are plenty of women to attend to all that. I want to talk to you, Miss Orr.”
His tone was authoritative.
She turned her head and looked at him.
“To talk to me?” she echoed.
“Yes; come back—for just a minute. I know what you’re thinking: that it’s my duty to be talking to parishioners. Well, I’ve been doing that all the evening. I think I’m entitled to a moment of relaxation; don’t you?”
“I’m a parishioner,” she reminded him.
“So you are,” he agreed joyously. “And I haven’t had a word with you this evening, so far; so you see it’s my duty to talk to you; and it’s your duty to listen.”
“Well?” she murmured.
Her face upturned to his in the moonlight wore the austere loveliness of a saint’s.
