Next day his fellow-clerks noticed a decided improvement in Sherman’s
spirits. He had a lark-like cheerfulness and alacrity breaking out at
odd moments. When evening came he called, for the first time since his
return, on Miss Leland. She scolded him for having answered her note
in such a formal way, but was sincerely glad to see him return to his
allegiance. We have said he had sometimes, though rarely, a talkative
fit. He had one this evening. The last play they had been to, the
last party, the picture of the year, all in turn he glanced at. She
was delighted. Her training had not been in vain. Her barbarian was
learning to chatter. This flattered her a deal.
‘I was never engaged,’ she thought, ‘to a more interesting creature.’
When he had risen to go, Sherman said: ‘I have a friend coming to visit
me in a few days; you will suit each other delightfully. He is very
mediæval.’
‘Do tell me about him; I like everything mediæval.’
‘Oh,’ he cried, with a laugh, ‘his mediævalism is not in your line. He
is neither a gay troubadour nor a wicked knight. He is a High Church
curate.’
‘Do not tell me anything more about him,’ she answered; ‘I will try to
be civil to him, but you know I never liked curates. I have been an
agnostic for many years. You, I believe, are orthodox.’
As Sherman was on his way home he met a fellow-clerk, and stopped him
with: ‘Are you an agnostic?’
‘No. Why, what is that?’
‘Oh, nothing! Good-bye,’ he made answer, and hurried on his way.