"I may come again?"
She stared at the floor. "Come again?" she muttered. "I don't know."
"I should very much like to come."
"What do you want?" she asked, looking up. "It ain't me, is it?"
The curate shook his head.
"Well, what do you want? I thought you was from the Society. I thought you was an agent come to take him away because I wasn't fit to keep him. But it ain't that. And it ain't me. What is it you want, anyhow?"
"To come again."
She turned away. He patiently waited. All at once she looked into his eyes, long, deep, intensely—a scrutiny of his very soul.
"You got a good name to keep, ain't you?" she asked.
"Yes," he answered. "And you?"