“I was very sorry to learn to-day that we are losing Mr. Thoyne,” the Vicar said, in his halting drawl.
He took off his spectacles and polished them with the corner of his handkerchief, peering mildly at the rest of us the while, though his remark had evidently been addressed to his wife.
“He very seldom came to church,” Mrs. Vicar snapped.
“No, not frequently,” the Vicar admitted, “not so frequently as I could have wished. But he was very generous—very. Any story of distress or need was very sure of a sympathetic hearing. I have dipped rather deeply into his purse more than once.”
“Who told you he was leaving?” his wife asked.
The Vicar selected a slice of bread-and-butter with great deliberation from the plate before him.
“I was sorry I had no opportunity of bidding him good-bye,” he went on, apparently ignoring his wife’s question though most likely he had not heard it. “True I saw him yesterday but I had no chance then. I was returning from a visit to Sarah Blooms—poor woman—”
“She died this morning,” his wife chimed in, a little snappily I thought, though that may have been because I was not quite used to her conversational style.
“Ah, yes—dear me! dear me!”
The Vicar relapsed into silence.