‘What is it?’ he said. Mr. Cattley was a little grey by nature, with no perceptible colour, but he warmed slightly with the interest of this mysterious office which was about to be conferred upon him.
‘It is about John and Elly,’ Mrs. Egerton said.
‘What,’ cried the curate, ‘have they——?’ with a gleam of animation, which faded, however, when he saw that his oracle shook her head; but it was very evident which way Mr. Cattley’s sympathies went.
‘I don’t know if I can trust you, after all. Mr. Cattley, you know Jack—though he is a charming boy, and was almost like one of ourselves as long as he was living here—still he is not in the same position, is he? Not perhaps quite so well educated and all that—not—a gentleman, as people say.’
‘Yes, I am sure he is a gentleman,’ said Mr. Cattley, quietly.
‘In heart and in manners, oh, yes. He is very nice; he is full of good impulses, and his manners, for his position, are very nice. But, Mr. Cattley, there is something more—really, you must acknowledge something more is necessary.’
‘For what?’ he said.
At this Mrs. Egerton’s middle-aged countenance was touched with a little colour, for perhaps in consequence of the curate’s boundless admiration for her, she stood a little in awe of him, and doubtless avoided in his presence the expression of all sentiments that might seem to him unworthy. She hesitated for a moment.
‘Mr. Cattley,’ she said. ‘I must first explain. These two are at a dangerous age to be such great friends. With boy and girl that sort of sentiment is so apt to glide into—a warmer feeling.’
‘Yes, I know; and not only with boy and girl.’