As they ascended the hill together, keeping Andersen in sight, Clavering remarked to his companion, “I believe that dissolute young reprobate refused to look after his brother simply because he wanted to talk to those two girls.” “What two girls?” enquired Vennie. “Didn’t you see them?” muttered the clergyman crossly. “The Bristow girl and little Phyllis Santon. They were hanging about, waiting for him.” “I’m sure you are quite wrong,” replied Vennie. “Luke may have his faults, but he is devoted--madly devoted--to his brother.” “Not at all,” cried Clavering almost rudely. “I know the man better than you do. He is entirely selfish. He is a selfish, sensual pleasure-seeker! He may be fond of his brother in his fashion, just because he _is_ his brother, and they have the same tastes; but his one great aim is his own pleasure. He has been the worst influence I have had to contend with, in this whole village, for some time back!” His voice trembled with rage as he spoke. It was impossible, even for the guileless Vennie, not to help wondering in her mind whether the violence of her friend’s reprobation was not impelled by an emotion more personal than public. Her unlucky knowledge of what the nature of such an emotion might be did not induce her to yield meekly to his argument. “I don’t believe he saw the people you speak of any more than I did,” she said. “Saw them?” cried the priest wrathfully, quickening his pace, as Andersen disappeared round the corner of the road, so that Vennie had to trot by his side like a submissive child. “I saw the look he fixed on them. I know that look of his! I tell you he is the kind of man that does harm wherever he goes. He’s a lazy, sensual, young scoundrel. He ought to be kicked out of the place.” Vennie sighed deeply. Life in the world of men was indeed a complicated and entangled matter. She had turned, in her agitation about the stone-carver, and in her reaction from Mr. Taxater’s reserve, straight to the person she loved best of all; and this was her reward,--a mere crude outburst of masculine jealousy! They rounded the corner by her own gate, where the road to Athelston deviates at right angles. James Andersen was no longer in sight. “Where the devil has the man got to?” cried the astonished clergyman, raging at himself for his ill-temper, and raging at Vennie for having been the witness of it. The girl glanced up the Athelston road; and hastening forward a few paces, scanned the stately slope of the Nevilton west drive. The unfortunate man was nowhere to be seen. From where they now stood, the whole length of the village street was visible, almost as far as the Goat and Boy. It was full of holiday-making young people, but there was no sign of Andersen’s tall and unmistakable figure. “Oh, this is dreadful!” cried Vennie. “What are we to do? Where can he have gone?”