Tom swept his parcels off the counter into his pockets, and muttered something about “hoame.”
“This is your last day, isn’t it?” asked the curate.
“Yessir. Off to-morrow.”
“Sorry?”
“Middling sorry, for some reasons.”
“But it will be a big experience for you.”
The curate was young, and sometimes vaguely hankered after that adventure in which no priests but those of godless France might share. It was hard to see it being wasted on a pudding-headed chap like Beatup.
Tom only grunted his reply to this challenge. He was angry with the parson for having come into the shop, discreet as had been his entry. He did not think of waiting till he had gone, for somehow no one, especially a man, ever left Thyrza’s shop in a hurry, as if the tranquil dawdle of the shopkeeper communicated itself to her customers, making them lounge and linger long after their purchases were made.
“Good-bye, Mrs. Honey.”