George was beginning to feel uncomfortable in this strange atmosphere—also he was most horribly wanting his tea. Possibly, as Luce had supper instead of dinner, he took tea later than usual.
“Of course,” continued the Rector, “some people in this place don’t like our ways, and don’t come to church here at all. Some of my parishioners go to you, just as some of yours come to me.”
“You mean my brother Gervase?”
“I wasn’t thinking of him particularly, but he certainly does come.”
“The Mounts brought him.”
“In the first instance, I believe. I hope you don’t feel hurt at his coming here—but he told me he hadn’t been to church for over a year, so I thought....”
Not a sign of triumph, not a sign of shame—and not a sign of tea. It suddenly struck George as a hitherto undreamed-of possibility that Luce did not take tea. His whole life seemed so different from anything George had known that it was quite conceivable that he did not. Anyhow the Vicar of Leasan must be going—the long shadows of some poplars lay over the garden and were darkening the little room into an early twilight. He rose to depart.
“Well, I must be off, I suppose. Glad to have had a chat. Come and preach for me one day,” he added rashly.
“With pleasure—but I warn you, I’m simply hopeless as a preacher.”
“Oh, never mind, never mind,” said George—“all the better—I mean my people will enjoy the change—at least I mean——”