“No, not obliged, I am happy to say. If my parishioners do not hear the truth I have no excuse. It must be rather trying to the temper of a lady like yourself to humour the caprices of the vulgar.”
“No; they are my customers, and even if they are unpleasant they are so not to me personally but to their servant, who ceases to be their servant when she ceases to be employed upon their clothes.”
“You are a philosopher, madam; that sentiment is worthy of Epictetus.”
“I have read Epictetus in Mrs. Carter’s translation.”
“You have read Epictetus? That is remarkable! I should think no other woman in the county has read him.” He leaned forward a little and his face was lighted up. “I have a library, madam, a large library; I should like to show it to you, if—if it can be managed without difficulty.”
“It will give me great pleasure to see it some day. It must be a delightful solace to you in a town like this, in which I daresay you have but few friends. I suppose, though, you visit a good deal?”
“No; I do not visit much. I differ from my brother Sinclair in the next parish. He is always visiting. What is the consequence?—gossip and, as I conceive, a loss of dignity and self-respect. I will go wherever there is trouble or wherever I am wanted, but I will not go anywhere for idle talk.”
“I think you are right. A priest should not make himself cheap and common. He should be representative of sacred interests superior to the ordinary interests of life.”
“I am grateful to you, madam, very grateful to you for these observations. They are as just as they are unusual. I sincerely hope that we—” But there was a knock at the door.
“Come in.” It was Mrs. Harrop. “Your bell rang, Mrs. Fairfax, but maybe you didn’t hear it as you were engaged in conversation. Good morning, Dr. Midleton. I hope I don’t intrude?”