“It has been the custom for them to ask him,” the archdeacon replied cautiously. “By the way you did it last year, did you not?”
“Yes, for Mr. Williams. He was confined to his room.”
“I thought so. Well, this year these foolish people seem to have taken a fancy not to have the rector, and they came to me. I tried to persuade them to have him, but it was no good. And so,” the archdeacon added, in a lower tone, “I thought it would look less like a slight if I came than if any other clergyman—you, for instance—were the clerical guest.”
“To be sure,” said the curate warmly. “It was most thoughtful of you.”
The archdeacon hitched his chair a little nearer the fire. He felt the influence of the curate’s sympathy. The latter had said little, but his manner warmed the old gentleman’s heart, and his tongue also grew more loose. “I wonder whether you know,” he said genially, rubbing his hands up and down his knees, which he was gently toasting, and looking benevolently at his companion, “how near you were to having the living, Clode?”
“Do you mean Claversham?” replied the curate, experiencing a kind of shock at this reference to the subject so near his heart.
“Yes, of course.”
“I never thought I had a chance of it!”
“You had so good a chance,” responded the archdeacon, nodding his head wisely, “that only one thing stood between you and it.”
“May I ask what that was?” the curate rejoined, his heart beating fast.