"How much you must have missed because of your skepticism!" he said. "But I shall not let it affect me. You are a man of note-book and pencil. Will you promise me one thing? Will you give me your word not to share what I shall tell you with any one, unless, later on, I am willing that you should?"
"Oh, dear, yes!" said the professor.
And again he smiled. For even now he believed the curate to be wavering, swayed by conflicting emotions, and felt sure that a flick of the whip to his egoism would be likely to hasten the coming of what he, the professor, wanted.
A loud call rose up from the street. A wandering vender of something was crying his ware. In his voice was a sound of fierce melancholy. Chichester went to the window and shut it down.
"I wish it was night," he said as he turned.
The professor jerked out his watch.
"It must be getting late," he observed. "Past six! by Jove!"
He made an abrupt movement.
"What?" said Chichester. "You are going!"
He came up to the table.