On Sunday he strolled soon after breakfast
in the direction of the priest's. Merlier
was standing at the door to his house.
Gordon noted that the other was growing heavier,
folds dropped from the corners of his shaven lips,
his eyes had retreated in fatty pouches. His gaze
was still searchingly keen, but the priest was wearing
out. Gordon stopped in response to his silent
nod.
"You ought to let up on yourself a little," he advised.
"Why?" the other briefly queried.
"'Why?', so's you will last longer."
To this the priest made no reply. A short, awkward
silence followed during which Gordon grew
restive. "If I looked so glum about Greenstream,"
he continued, "I'd move out." It was as though he
had not spoken. "I'd go back where I came from,"
he persisted sharply. The priest's lips moved,
formed words:
_"'Che_discese_da_Fiesole_ab_antico.'"_
His imperturbable manner offered Gordon not the
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