“That is precisely it, sir,” said Theron.  There were people passing, and he was forced to keep his voice down.  It would have been a relief, he felt, to shout.  “That is it—­they were not intended for me.”

“Well, then, what are you talking about?” The lawyer’s speech had become abrupt almost to incivility.

“I think my remarks have been perfectly clear,” said the minister, with dignity.  It was a new experience to be addressed in that fashion.  It occurred to him to add, “Please remember that I am not in the witness-box, to be bullied or insulted by a professional.”

Gorringe studied Theron’s face attentively with a cold, searching scrutiny.  “You may thank your stars you’re not!” he said, with significance.

What on earth could he mean?  The words and the menacing tone greatly impressed Theron.  Indeed, upon reflection, he found that they frightened him.  The disposition to adopt a high tone with the lawyer was melting away.

“I do not see,” he began, and then deliberately allowed his voice to take on an injured and plaintive inflection—­“I do not see why you should adopt this tone toward me—­Brother Gorringe.”

The lawyer scowled, and bit sharply into the cigar, but said nothing.

“If I have unconsciously offended you in any way,” Theron went on, “I beg you to tell me how.  I liked you from the beginning of my pastorate here, and the thought that latterly we seemed to be drifting apart has given me much pain.  But now it is still more distressing to find you actually disposed to quarrel with me.  Surely, Brother Gorringe, between a pastor and a probationer who—­”

“No,” Gorringe broke in; “quarrel isn’t the word for it.  There isn’t any quarrel, Mr. Ware.”  He stepped down from the door-stone to the sidewalk as he spoke, and stood face to face with Theron.  Working-men with dinner-pails, and factory girls, were passing close to them, and he lowered his voice to a sharp, incisive half-whisper as he added, “It wouldn’t be worth any grown man’s while to quarrel with so poor a creature as you are.”

Theron stood confounded, with an empty stare of bewilderment on his face.  It rose in his mind that the right thing to feel was rage, righteous indignation, fury; but for the life of him, he could not muster any manly anger.  The character of the insult stupefied him.

“I do not know that I have anything to say to you in reply,” he remarked, after what seemed to him a silence of minutes.  His lips framed the words automatically, but they expressed well enough the blank vacancy of his mind.  The suggestion that anybody deemed him a “poor creature” grew more astounding, incomprehensible, as it swelled in his brain.

“No, I suppose not,” snapped Gorringe.  “You’re not the sort to stand up to men; your form is to go round the corner and take it out of somebody weaker than yourself—­a defenceless woman, for instance.”

“Oh—­ho!” said Theron.  The exclamation had uttered itself.  The sound of it seemed to clarify his muddled thoughts; and as they ranged themselves in order, he began to understand.  “Oh—­ho!” he said again, and nodded his head in token of comprehension.