but he belted them into baggy folds. The other appeared
shortly with a wooden tray bearing a platter
of cooked, yellow beans, a part loaf of coarse bread,
raw eggs and a pitcher of milk. "I thought," he
explained, "you would wish something immediately;
there is no fire; Bartamon is out." The latter, Gordon
knew, was a sharp-witted old man who had
made a precarious living in the local fields and
woodsheds until the priest had taken him as a general
helper. "There are neither coffee nor tea in
the house," Merlier stated further.

He closed the book, moved the lamp to the end
of the table, and stood with his countenance lowered,
his folded hands immovable as stone, while Gordon
Makimmon consumed the cold food. Once the
priest replenished the other's glass with milk.

If there had been a gleam of fraternal feeling,
the slightest indication of generous impulse, a mere
accent of hospitality, in the priest's actions, Gordon,
accepting them in such spirit, might have been at
ease. But not the faintest spark of interest, of curiosity,
the most perfunctory communion of sympathy,
was evident on Merlier's immobile countenance; his
movements were machine-like, he seemed infinitely
removed from his charitable act, infinitely cold.

Gordon's discomfort burned into a species of illogical,
resentful anger. He cursed the priest under
his breath, choked on the food; he was heartily

[[107]]

p106 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p107w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p108

v?