he answered her, the tired eyes of the Reverend Castor rested for a time on the meager furniture as if he had lost himself in deep thought. She waited. This attitude was, however, merely professional, and wholly misleading. He was not in deep thought. He was merely thinking, "She doesn't want advice. She only wants to talk about herself. Whatever I say will make no difference. She means to marry him, no matter what happens."
But because this was his work he spoke at last, setting forth one by one all the arguments she had repeated to herself earlier in the day, concluding with the remark, "The reasons on the other side you have put very well yourself."
Emma stirred in the springless leather chair. "Then what do you advise?"
"Mrs. Downes, it is a matter that no one can decide but yourself. Pray God to help you, and do what you think is right."
He was troubled, and, in a vague way, disturbed and unhappy, because in the back of his mind the worm of envy was at work, gnawing, gnawing, gnawing—a sinful worm that gave him no peace. Moses Slade was free to marry again, and he had chosen Emma Downes. He had thought of Emma Downes for himself, in case . . . (the wicked thought returned to him again like a shadow crossing his path) . . . in case Annie's illness carried her off at last. It seemed to him that all the world was going past him, while he remained behind, chained to a complaining invalid.
Emma rose, and, after he had turned the gas out and locked the door, they went out together. It was a clear, quiet night, when for once there seemed to be
