“What do you mean, Father?”
“I mean that other travellers are not like this man.”
He leaned his thin hands heavily on the gate, and she saw, by the expression of his eyes, that he was going to say something startling.
“Madame,” he said, lowering his voice, “I did not speak quite frankly to you this afternoon. You may, or you may not, have understood what I meant. But now I will speak plainly. As a priest I warn you, I warn you most solemnly, not to make friends with this man.”
There was a silence, then Domini said:
“Please give me your reason for this warning.”
“That I can’t do.”
“Because you have no reason, or because it is not one you care to tell me?”
“I have no reason to give. My reason is my instinct. I know nothing of this man—I pity him. I shall pray for him. He needs prayers, yes, he needs them. But you are a woman out here alone. You have spoken to me of yourself, and I feel it my duty to say that I advise you most earnestly to break off your acquaintance with Monsieur Androvsky.”
“Do you mean that you think him evil?”