the night knew something he did not; and he yielded himself to its
invasion.

His companion having carefully lighted his cigar all round its
extreme periphery, took it from his mouth, regarded its glowing end
with a smile of satisfaction, and burst into a laugh. It was not a
scornful laugh, neither was it a merry or a humorous laugh; it was
one of satisfaction and amusement.

"Let me have a share in the fun," said the curate.

"You have it," said his companion--rudely, indeed, but not quite
offensively, and put his cigar in his mouth again.

Wingfold was not one to take umbrage easily. He was not important
enough in his own eyes for that, but he did not choose to go
farther.

"That's a fine old church," he said, pointing to the dark mass
invading the blue--so solid, yet so clear in outline.

"I am glad the mason-work is to your mind," returned Bascombe,
almost compassionately. "It must be some satisfaction, perhaps
consolation to you."

Before he had thus concluded the sentence a little scorn had crept
into his tone.

"You make some allusion which I do not quite apprehend," said the
curate.