"I never discuss women,"--replied Walden, drily--"I am not a poet, you see,--" and he smiled--"I am merely a middle-aged parson. You can hardly expect me to share in your youthful enthusiasms, Adderley! You are going up the hill of life,--I am travelling down. We cannot see things from the same standpoint." Here, they left the fields and came to the high road,--from thence a few more paces brought them to the gate of the rectory. "But I quite agree with you in your admiration of Miss Vancourt. She seems a most kindly and charming lady--and--I believe--I am sure"--and his remarks become somewhat rambling and disjointed--"yes--I am sure she will try to do good in the village now that she has taken up her residence here. That is, of course, if she stays. She may get tired of country life- -that is quite probable--but--it is, of course, a good thing to have a strong social influence in the neighbourhood--especially a woman's influence--and I should say Miss Vancourt will make herself useful and beloved in the parish---"
At this period he caught Adderley's eyes fixed upon him somewhat quizzically, and realised that he was getting quite 'parochial' in his talk. He checked himself abruptly and swung open his garden gate.
"I'm sorry I can't ask you in just now,"--he said--"I have some pressing work to do---"
"Don't mention it!" and Julian clasped him by the hand fervently--"I would not intrude upon you for worlds! You must be alone, of course. You are delightful!--yes, my dear Walden, you are delicious! So new- -so fresh! It is a privilege to know you! Good-bye for the moment! I may come and talk to you another time!"
"Oh, certainly! By all means!" And Walden, shaking hands with all the vigour Adderley's grasp enforced upon him, escaped at last into the sanctuary of his own garden, and hastened under the covering shadow of the trees that bordered the lawn. Adderley watched him disappear, and then went on his own way with a gratified air of perfect complacency.
"Those who 'never discuss women' are apt to be most impressed by them,"--he sagaciously reflected--"The writhings of a beetle on a pin are not so complex or interesting as the writhings of a parson's stabbed senses! Now a remarkable psychological study might be made-- My good friend! Kindly look where you are going!"
This last remark was addressed to a half-drunken man who pushed past him roughly without apology, almost jostling him off the foot-path. It was Oliver Leach, who hearing himself spoken to, glanced round sullenly with a muttered oath, and stumbled on.