The Dweller on the Threshold. Robert Hichens
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going to be long in London?"
"All the season, I think."
"Then I hope we may meet again soon, very soon."
He hesitated, put one hand in his pocket, and brought out a card-case.
"I should like to give you my address."
"And let me give you mine."
They exchanged cards.
"I expect you'll be very busy," said the curate, rather doubtfully.
Then he added, like a man urged on by some strong, almost overpowering desire to do a thing not quite natural to him:
"But I wish you could spare an evening to come to dine with me. I live very modestly, of course. I'm in rooms, in Hornton Street—do you know it?—near Campden Hill?—Number 4a—as you'll see on my card. I wonder—"
"I shall be delighted to come."
"When?"
"Whenever you are kind enough to ask me."
"Could you come on Wednesday week? It's so unfortunate, I have such a quantity of parish engagements—that is my first evening free."
"Wednesday week, with pleasure."
"At half after seven?"
"That will suit me perfectly."
"And"—he looked toward the door—"I shall be greatly obliged to you if you won't mention to the rector the fact that you are coming. He—"
"My wife's in the boudoir," said Mr. Harding, coming into the room at this moment.
He stood by the door.
Malling shook hands with Chichester, and went to say good-by to his hostess.
Mr. Harding shut the drawing-room door.
"This is the way," he said. "Well, Mr. Malling? Well?"
"You mean you want to know—?"
"Your impression of Chichester."
The rector stopped on the landing.
"Do you find him much changed?"
Malling shrugged his shoulders.
"Possibly—a little. He may have become rather firmer in manner, a trifle more decisive."
"Firmer! More decisive, you say!"
"But surely that is only natural, working—as he has done, I understand, under a man such as yourself for two years."
"Such as myself! Then you think he's caught something of my manner and way of looking at things? You think—"
"Really, it's difficult to say," interrupted Malling. "He's developed, no doubt. But very few people don't. I suppose you've trained him."
"I!" said the rector. "I train a man like Chichester!"
In his voice there was a bitter irony.
"Is that you, Mr. Malling?" said the voice of Lady Sophia. "I was lying down with a book. This is my little room."
She looked pale, almost haggard, as the sunshine fell upon her through the open window.
Malling took his leave at once and she did not attempt to detain him.
"I hope you'll come again," she said, as they shook hands. "Perhaps on another Sunday morning, to church and lunch. I'll let you know."
She said the last words with a significance which made Malling understand that she did not wish him to come to church at St. Joseph's again till she gave him the word.
The rector let him out of the house. Not another word was spoken about Henry Chichester. As his guest walked away the rector stood, bareheaded, looking after him, then, as Malling turned the corner of the gardens, with a heavy sigh, and the unconscious gesture of a man greatly troubled in mind, he stepped back into his hall and shut the door behind him.
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