“But I am not feeling badly,” Theron replied, with frank impatience.  “Only I feel—­I feel that being alone with my thoughts would be good for me.”

“Oh, certainly—­by all means!” Alice had said, and turned sharply on her heel.

Being alone with these thoughts, Theron strolled aimlessly about, and did not think at all.  The shadows gathered, and fireflies began to disclose their tiny gleams among the shrubbery in the gardens.  A lamp-lighter came along, and passed him, leaving in his wake a straggling double line of lights, glowing radiantly against the black-green of the trees.  This recalled to Theron that he had heard that the town council lit the street lamps by the almanac, and economized gas when moonshine was due.  The idea struck him as droll, and he dwelt upon it in various aspects, smiling at some of its comic possibilities.  Looking up in the middle of one of these whimsical conceits, the sportive impulse died suddenly within him.  He realized that it was dark, and that the massive black bulk reared against the sky on the other side of the road was the Catholic church.  The other fact, that he had been there walking to and fro for some time, was borne in upon him more slowly.  He turned, and resumed the pacing up and down with a still more leisurely step, musing upon the curious way in which people’s minds all unconsciously follow about where instincts and intuitions lead.

No doubt it was what Sister Soulsby had said about Catholics which had insensibly guided his purposeless stroll in this direction.  What a woman that was!  Somehow the purport of her talk—­striking, and even astonishing as he had found it—­did not stand out so clearly in his memory as did the image of the woman herself.  She must have been extremely pretty once.  For that matter she still was a most attractive-looking woman.  It had been a genuine pleasure to have her in the house—­to see her intelligent responsive face at the table—­to have it in one’s power to make drafts at will upon the fund of sympathy and appreciation, of facile mirth and ready tenderness in those big eyes of hers.  He liked that phrase she had used about herself—­“a good fellow.”  It seemed to fit her to a “t.”  And Soulsby was a good fellow too.  All at once it occurred to him to wonder whether they were married or not.

But really that was no affair of his, he reflected.  A citizen of the intellectual world should be above soiling his thoughts with mean curiosities of that sort, and he drove the impertinent query down again under the surface of his mind.  He refused to tolerate, as well, sundry vagrant imaginings which rose to cluster about and literalize the romance of her youth which Sister Soulsby had so frankly outlined.  He would think upon nothing but her as he knew her,—­the kindly, quick-witted, capable and charming woman who had made such a brilliant break in the monotony of life at that dull parsonage of his.  The only genuine happiness in life must consist in having bright, smart, attractive women like that always about.