ving a talk with
Dr. Tring--"

Ishmael kept an ungrateful silence; it seemed to him that week had been
all talks.

The Parson waited a second and then, with a tiny pang of disappointment,
went on:

"It is to be all right; everything is to be as it was before. I know you
feel that is impossible, but it will hurt less and less with time,
believe me. Character is what counts in the long run, Ishmael. And I
have seen--I can't tell you how proudly--that you have character, that
it has made its mark here. That shows in the way this affair has been
taken. So pull yourself together; tell yourself how little it all really
matters, and you'll find it is so."

A wave of affection for his friend went over Ishmael as he listened to
the words that really fitted his case so little and were so kindly
spoken. He felt in a flat muddle, unaware whether he wished he did feel
all he was expected to or glad he did not; but one good thing the
Parson's words accomplished. They purged him of the artificial
standpoint of the afternoon. It was impossible for one as naturally
direct as Ishmael to be in contact with so much of singleness of purpose
as the Parson's and not be ashamed of his own impulses towards
theatrical vision. He turned his head away to hide his emotion, which
the Parson took to spring from the news he had imparted and welcomed
with relief. He took the boy's hand and pressed it, a thing rare for
him, who was so sensitive of others' wishes he generally left physical
expression to them in the first place.

"Shall we be getting back?" he said, after a moment.

As they were walking over the moor a gleam of sun shone out, wavered,
then strengthened, and before a soft breeze the mist began to vanish,
only clinging here and there in the pockets of the moor like fine white
wool rubbed off the backs of phantom sheep. For a while they strode in
silence; then the Parson said:

"By the way, you know old Mr. Eliot's daughter, don't you? Tring told me
she went to the dancing classes."

"Yes.... Why?" Ishmael asked in sudden alarm.

If it had all come out--to have a girl mixed up in this story of
his--the ignominy of it! The next moment with his relief mingled a
contrition for his selfish impulse when Boase replied: "She's not well,
apparently. Her father made Carron have a look at her; he's no faith in
Harvey. Seems she's been doing too much for her strength--walking too
far. She appears to think nothing of ten to fifteen miles."