“St. John's!” She leaned back against the piano and laughed unrestrainedly. “That's a good one, to think how straight I've been talking to you.”
“I'm much obliged to you,” he said.
Again she gazed at him, now plainly perplexed.
“What are you giving me?”
“I mean what I say,” he answered. “I am obliged to you for telling me things I didn't know. And I appreciate—your asking me to stay.”
She was sitting upright now, her expression changed, her breath came more rapidly, her lips parted as she gazed at him.
“Do you know,” she said, “I haven't had anybody speak to me like that for four years.” Her voice betrayed excitement, and differed in tone, and she had cast off unconsciously the vulgarity of speech. At that moment she seemed reminiscent of what she must once have been; and he found himself going through an effort at reconstruction.
“Like what?” he asked.
“Like a woman,” she answered vehemently.
“My name is John Hodder,” he said, “and I live in the parish house, next door to the church. I should like to be your friend, if you will let me. If I can be of any help to you now, or at any other time, I shall feel happy. I promise not to preach,” he added.