“He left no offering with me,” she said.
“No gift, Sister, nothing out of gratitude for the blessing?”
“No.”
“Not even a ring or a piece of money?”
“Nothing.”
Silvius’s face condemned such vagrant meanness. He hid his vexation, and spoke softly, remembering that he was dealing with a certain sensitive thing called woman.
“Sister,” said he. “Perhaps the man was poor. We grudge nothing to those who are blessed with poverty. But an offering should always be made, even though it be but the half of an apple. God loves not niggardliness, my sister, and I would not have our good Lord, St. Martin, offended.”
Denise could not see Silvius because of the closed door, but there was something in his voice that made her see him as a sharp-faced, shrewd, insinuating figure hiding covetousness under the cloak of humility.
“I asked for nothing, Father,” she said.
Silvius’s face was very cunning.