Meanwhile, what is sauce for the goose is not always sauce for the gander. The younger man turned away, at the moment, indeed, in a white heat, full of wrath at the other’s unreasonableness, folly, churlishness. But the comfortable warmth which this engendered passed away quickly—alas! much too quickly—and long before Lindo reached the rectory, though the walk through the gray streets, where the shops were just being lighted, did not take him two minutes, a chill depression had taken its place. This was a fine beginning! This was a happy augury of his future administration of the parish! To have begun by quarrelling with his church warden—could anything have been worse? And the check had come so suddenly, so unexpectedly, and at a time when he had been on such good terms with himself, that he felt it the more sorely. He went into the house with his head bent, and was not best pleased to find Stephen Clode inquiring after him in the hall. He would rather have been alone. The curate, as he came forward, did not fail to note that something was amiss, and a gleam of intelligence flashed for an instant across his dark face. “Come into the study,” said the rector curtly. Since Clode was here, and could not be avoided, he felt it would be a relief to tell him all. And he did so, the curate listening and making no remark whatever, so that the rector presently looked at him in surprise. “What do you think of it?” he said, some impatience in his one. “It is unfortunate, is it not?” “Well, I don’t know,” the curate answered, leaning forward in his chair, with his elbows on his knees and his eyes cast down upon the hat which he was slowly revolving between his hands. “I am not astonished, you know. What can you expect from a pig but a grunt?” The rector got up, and, leaning his arm on the mantel-shelf, felt, if the truth be told, rather uncomfortable. “I do not understand you,” he said at length. “It is what I should have expected from Bonamy. That is all.” “Then you must think him a very ill-conditioned man!” Lindo retorted warmly, scarcely knowing whether the annoyance he felt was a reminiscence of his late conflict or caused by his companion’s manner. “Well, again, what else can you expect?” Clode replied sagely, looking up and shrugging his shoulders. “You know all about him, I suppose?” “I know nothing,” said the rector, frowning slightly. “He is not a gentleman, you know,” the curate answered, still looking up and speaking with languid indolence as if what he said must be known to everyone. “You have heard his history?” “No, I have not.”