Dr. Price, called to New York on various occasions, returned by late trains, and one night, delayed beyond reason, he arrived after the household had retired. His entrance roused Mrs. Price from her dreams, and, while the dean was preparing to go to bed, they carried on a disjointed conversation through the open door of his dressing-room, made up of questions on her part and abstracted answers on his. But he had something on his mind, and finally emerged to plunge into the topic that had so recently absorbed the village.
“My dear, I’m not sure that Diane’s making such a fine match,” he remarked. “It’s the second or third time that I’ve met Faunce prancing around in lonely places at all hours.”
Mrs. Price sat up in bed.
“My dear Edward, do you suppose he drinks?”
The dean shook his head thoughtfully.
“I spoke to him, and I don’t think he knew me at first. His wits seemed to be wool-gathering.”
“Perhaps, Edward, he’s—he’s seeking a light!” she whispered in an awed tone.
The dean looked unconvinced.
“He’s a young man, Julia, and not religious. There’s something odd about it. You remember Overton? You could feel his strength—he seemed fairly to give it out. If he’d been a professing Christian, I believe he could have led a host; but Faunce——” Dr. Price stopped and stared meditatively into space.
“But he’s so handsome, Edward, and so much in love! I’ve often thought he looked inspired, like that picture—you remember it?—Andrea del Sarto’s young St. John. I think it’s very touching if his grief for Overton has unbalanced his mind. It’s such a perfect instance of friendship, I suppose the judge would call it a case of Orestes and Pylades, but I can only think of David and Jonathan. I hate heathen analogies! You take my word for it, he’s grieving for Overton.”