I was sure that, whatever she was doing, he had been trying to keep the
talk, as it were, on the surface. I was equally sure that, to her last
question, he would make no reply. Though I was now speaking to Justine
Caron, I heard him say quite calmly and firmly: "Yes, I preach, baptise,
marry, and bury, and do all I can for those who need help."

"The people about here say that you are good and charitable. You have
won the hearts of the mountaineers. But you always had a gift that
way."--I did not like her tone.--"One would almost think you had founded
a new dispensation. And if I had drowned yesterday, you would,
I suppose, have buried me, and have preached a little sermon about me.
--You could have done that better than any one else! . . . What
would you have said in such a case?"

There was an earnest, almost a bitter, protest in the reply.

"Pardon me, if I cannot answer your question. Your life was saved, and
that is all we have to consider, except to be grateful to Providence.
The duties of my office have nothing to do with possibilities."

She was evidently torturing him, and I longed to say a word that would
torture her. She continued: "And the flesh-pots--you have not answered
about them: do you not long for them--occasionally?"

"They are of a period," he answered, "too distant for regret."

"And yet," she replied softly, "I fancied sometimes in London last year,
that you had not outgrown that antique time--those lotos-days."

He made no reply at once, and in the pause Justine and I passed out to