Until this August afternoon he was not aware that he had made an
actual enemy in all the years that he had spent in Delverton, first as
an overworked Northborough curate, and latterly as one of the busiest
country vicars in the diocese. But towards five o'clock, as Mr. Woodgate
was returning to the Vicarage, a carriage and pair, sweeping past him
in a cloud of dust, left the clergyman quite petrified on the roadside,
his soft felt hat still in his hand; the carriage contained Mrs.
Venables, who had simply stared him in the face when he took it off.
Woodgate was quite excited when he reached the Vicarage. Morna met him
in the garden.
"Mrs. Venables cut me dead!" he cried while they were still yards apart.
"I am not surprised," replied Morna, who was in a state of suppressed
excitement herself.
"But what on earth is the meaning of it?"
"She has just been here."
"Well?"
"She is not likely to come again. Oh, Hugh, I don't know how to tell
you! If you agree with her for a moment, if you see any possible excuse
for the woman, it will break my heart!"
Morna's fine eyes were filled with tears; the sight of them put out the
flame that had leapt for once from stolid Hugh, and he took her hand in
his own great soothing grasp.
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