“Thank you,” Lindo answered, choking down his indignation with an effort. For a week—for a whole week—this, his chosen lieutenant, had not been near him in his trouble! “I am much obliged to you,” he continued, “but I am rather surprised that your anxiety on my account did not lead you to come and see me at the rectory.” “I called, and failed to find you,” Clode answered, sitting resolutely down. Lindo followed his example. “I believe you did once,” he replied contemptuously. Had a friend been about to succeed him, he could have borne even to congratulate him. But the thought of this man entering on the enjoyment of all the good things he was resigning was well-nigh unendurable. Though he knew that it would best consort with his dignity to be silent, he could not refrain from pursuing the subject. “You thought,” he went on, the same gibe in his tone, “that a non-committal policy was best, I suppose?” The curate for a moment sat silent, his dark face glowing with resentment. “If you mean,” he said at last, neither Mrs. Hammond nor her daughter venturing to interfere—the former because she thought he was only getting his deserts, and the latter because she felt no call to champion him at present—“if you mean that I did not wish to publish my opinion, you are right, Mr. Lindo.” “I think you published it sufficiently for your purpose’” the young rector retorted with bitterness. “Then why throw my non-committal policy in my teeth?” replied the curate deftly. Thereby winning at least a logical victory. Lindo sneered and grew, of course, twice as angry as before. “Very neatly put!” he said. “I do not doubt that you would have got out of your confession of faith—or lack of faith—as cleverly, if circumstances had required it.” The words were scarcely out of his mouth before Miss Hammond rose in a marked way and left the room; while Clode for a moment glared at him as though he would resent the insult—for it was little less—in a practical manner. Fortunately the curate’s, calculating brain told him that nothing could be gained by this, and with an admirable show of patience and forbearance he waved the words aside. “I really do not understand you,” he said with a maddening air of superiority. “I cannot be blamed for having formed an opinion of my own on a subject which affected me. Then, having formed it, what was I to do? Publish it, or keep it to myself? As a fact, I did not publish it.” “Except by your acts,” said the rector. “Take it that way, then,” the curate replied, still with patience. “Do I gather that you would have had me, though I held an opinion adverse to you, come to you as before, be about you, treat you in all respects as if I were on your side? Is that your complaint? That I did not play the hypocrite?”