The Abbe made no reply.

The Cure was bending forward eagerly; the Seigneur sat with his hands over the top of his cane, his chin on his hands, never taking his eyes from him, save to glance once or twice at his brother.

Jo Portugais was crouched on the bench, watching.
"I do not know what makes an infidel," Charley went on.

"Is it an honest mind, a decent life, an austerity of living as great as that of any priest, a neighbourliness that gives and takes in fairness--" "No, no, no," interposed the Cure eagerly.

"So you have lived here, Monsieur; I can vouch for that.