“Only,” added Sam Petch, scratching his head, “it’s so hard to tell the difference. A lie—well, often it isn’t exactly a lie——”
“What else can it be?” demanded Andy.
“A lie——” repeated Sam. “Well, it’s often”—he searched the ceiling and derived inspiration from a string of onions—“it’s often the truth the other way out.”
“The difference between truth and falsehood is always perfectly clear and distinct,” said Andy, opening the door. And, really, he was still young enough to think so.
Sam Petch accompanied him with a sort of subdued dignity to the Thorpes’, and there said farewell.
“You may rely on me, sir,” he said.
Andy held out his hand impulsively.
“I think I may, Petch.”
Then the churchwarden’s wife came hospitably forward and shook hands with the new Vicar. She was as fat as Mr. Thorpe, but with a different sort of fatness; for while he seemed to be made of something very solid, like wood, she shook and wobbled to such an extent that Andy, following her down two steps into a cool room, held his breath involuntarily for fear she should crack.
“Mr. Thorpe’s out still,” she said, panting slightly. “But my nephew will take you to wash your hands. Wa-alter!”