"You see!" Mr. Harding said slowly.
"What do you mean to do?"
Mr. Harding got up from his chair with an effort like that of a weary man.
"I wonder where the railway-guide is?" he said. "Excuse me for a moment,
Mr. Malling."
He went away into the drawing-room, and returned with the railway-guide open in his hand.
"Malling," he said, using the greater familiarity he had for a moment discarded, "I am about to do a rude thing, but I ask you, I beg of you, to acquit me of any rude intention toward yourself. I have been looking up the Sunday trains. I find I can catch a good one at Faversham to-morrow morning. There is a motor I can hire in the town to get there. It stands just by the post-office, where the road branches." He paused, looking into Malling's face as if in search of some sign of vexation or irony. "With a large parish on my hands," he went on, "I have a great responsibility. And if Benyon, my second curate, is ill, they will be short-handed."
"I see."
"What distresses me greatly—greatly—is leaving you, my guest, at such short notice. I cannot say how I regret it."
He stopped. Purposely, to test him, Malling said nothing, but waited with an expressionless face.
"I cannot say. But how can I do otherwise? My duty to the parish must come before all things."