“Thanks. I appreciate honesty.”
Canon Stensly sat motionless a moment, staring at the house. Then he rose up leisurely from his chair, reached for one of the branches of the cherry-tree, drew it down and examined the forming fruit.
“They say that you used to drink.”
Murchison remained like an Egyptian Memnon looking towards Thebes. The churchman talked on.
“I have heard the same thing said about one or two of my dearest friends. Vile exaggerations of some explainable incident. The report originated from a certain lady who resides over against my church. Her husband is a professional man.”
He pulled down a second bough, and brushed the young fruit with his fingers to see whether it was set or not. The silence had something of the tension of expense. Murchison knew that this old friend was waiting for a denial.
“That’s quite true; I drank—at one time.”
A man of less ballast and less unselfishness would have rounded on the speaker, perhaps with an affected incredulity that would have embittered the consciousness of the confession. Canon Stensly did nothing so insignificant. He let the branch of the cherry-tree slip slowly through his fingers, put his hands in his pockets, and walked aside three paces as though to examine the tree at another angle.
“Tell me about it.”
There was a pause of a few seconds.