"My carriage is waiting," he said; "nothing could possibly suit me better."
Alban, however, remained seated.
"Mr. Geary," he exclaimed, "you have forgotten to tell me something."
"I can think of nothing."
"The conditions of this slap-up job--the high society and all the rest of it! What are the conditions?"
He spoke almost with contempt, and deliberately selected a vulgar expression. It had come to him by this time that some unknown friend had become interested in his career and that this amiable curate desired to make either a schoolmaster or an organist of him. "Old Boriskoff knew I was going to get the sack and little Lois has been chattering," he argued--nor did this line of reasoning at all console him. Sidney Geary, meanwhile, felt as though some one had suddenly applied a slab of melting ice to those grammatical nerves which Cambridge had tended so carefully.
"My dear Mr. Kennedy--not 'slap-up,' I beg of you. If there are any conditions attached to the employment my patron has to offer you, is not he the best person to state them? Come and hear him for yourself. I assure you it will not be waste of time."
"Does he live far from here?"
"At Hampstead Heath--it will take us an hour to drive there."
"And did he send the char à bancs especially for my benefit?"
"Not really--but naturally he did."
"Then I will go with you, sir."
He put on his cap slowly and followed the curate into the street--one of the girls racing after them to say that they had forgotten to pay the bill. "And a pretty sort of clergyman you must be, to be sure," was her reflection--to the curate's blushing annoyance and his quite substantial indignation.
"I find much impertinence in this part of the world," he remarked as they retraced their steps toward the West; "as if the girl did not know that it was an accident."
"We pay for what we eat down here," Alban rejoined dryly; "it's a good plan as you would discover if you tried it, sir."
Mr. Geary looked at the boy for an instant as though in doubt whether he had heard a sophism or a mere impertinence. This important question was not, however, to be decided; for a neat single brougham edged toward the pavement at the moment and a little crowd collected instantly to remark so signal a phenomenon.
"Your carriage, sir?" Alban asked.
"Yes," said the curate, quietly, "my carriage. And now, if you please, we will go and see Mr. Gessner. He is a Pole, Mr. Kennedy, and one of the richest men in London to-day."