Joanna suddenly felt her imagination gloat and kindle at the thought of Brodnyx and Pedlinge compelled to holiness—­all those wicked old men who wouldn’t go to church, but expected their Christmas puddings just the same, those hobbledehoys who loafed against gate-posts the whole of Sunday, those vain hussies who giggled behind their handkerchiefs all the service through—­it would be fine to see them hustled about and taught their manners ... it would be valiant sport to see them made to behave, as Mr. Pratt had never been able to make them.  She with her half-crown in the plate and her quarterly communion need have no qualms, and she would enjoy seeing the fear of God put into other folk.

So Lawrence’s visit was fruitful after all—­a friend of his had been ordered to give up his hard work in a slum parish and find a country vocation.  He promised that this friend should write to Joanna.

“But I must see him, too,” she said.

They were standing at the open door, and the religious in his black habit was like a cut paper silhouette against the long streaks of fading purple cloud.

“I remember,” he said, “that you always were particular about a man’s looks.  How Martin’s must have delighted you!”

His tongue did not falter over the loved, forbidden name—­he spoke it quite naturally and conversationally, as if glad that he could introduce it at last into their business.

Joanna’s body stiffened, but he did not see it, for he was gazing at the young creeper’s budding trail over the door.

“I hope you have a good photograph of him,” he continued—­“I know that a very good photograph was taken of him a year before he died—­much better than any of the earlier ones.  I hope you have one of those.”

“Yes, I have,” said Joanna gruffly.  From shock she had passed into a thrilling anger.  How calmly he had spoken the dear name, how unblushingly he had said the outrageous word “died!” How brazen, thoughtless, cruel he was about it all!—­tearing the veil from her sorrow, talking as if her dead lived ... she felt exposed, indecent, and she hated him, all the more because mixed with her hatred was a kind of disapproving envy, a resentment that he should be free to remember where she was bound to forget....

He saw her hand clench slowly at her side, and for the first time became aware of her state of mind.

“Good-bye, Jo,” he said kindly—­“I’ll tell Father Palmer to write to you.”

“Thanks, but I don’t promise to take him,” was her ungracious fling.

“No—­why should you?  And of course he may have already made his plans.  Good-bye, and thank you for your great kindness in offering the living to me—­it was very noble of you, considering what your family has suffered from mine.”

He had carefully avoided all reference to his father, but he now realized that he had kept the wrong silence.  It was the man who had brought her happiness, not the man who had brought her shame, that she was unable to speak of.