At the parting with Dornal, Meynell turned a corner and saw in front of him, walking alone, a portly gentleman, with a broad and substantial back. A start ran through him. After a moment's hesitation, he began to quicken his steps, and soon overtook the man in question.
Barron—for it was he—stopped in some astonishment, some confusion even, which he endeavoured to hide. Meynell held out his hand—rather timidly; and Barron just touched it.
"I have been attending the service at St. Mathias," he said, stiffly.
"I imagined so," said Meynell, walking on beside him, and quite unconscious of the fact that a passing group of clergy opposite were staring across the street in amazement at the juxtaposition of the two men, both well known to them. "Did it satisfy you?"
"Certainly. Fenton surpassed himself."
"He has a great gift," said Meynell, heartily. They moved on in silence, till at last Meynell said, with renewed hesitation—"Will you allow me to inquire after Maurice? I hope your mind is more at ease about him."
"He is doing well—for the moment." Another pause—broken by Barron, who said hurriedly in a different voice—"I got from him the whole story of the letters. There was nothing deliberate in it. It was a sudden, monkeyish impulse. He didn't mean as much harm by it as another man would have meant."
"No doubt," said Meynell, struck with pity, as he looked at the sunken face of the speaker. "And anyway—bygones are bygones. I hope your daughter is well?"
"Quite well, I thank you. We are just going abroad."
There was no more to be said. Meynell knew very well that the orthodox party had no room in its ranks, at that moment, for Henry Barron; and it was not hard to imagine what exclusion and ostracism must mean to such a temper. But the generous compunctions in his own mind could find no practical expression; and after a few more words they parted.