But having made up his mind that nothing more remained to be said on the question, he was logical enough--for logic is also a mental attribute, though by no means universally distributed--to think of other matters.
He began to think about Mr. Playdell, and his zeal for the reform of Archie. Harold’s respect for Mr. Playdell had materially increased since the morning. At first he had been inclined to look with suspicion upon the man who had, by the machinery of the Church, been prohibited from discharging the functions of a priest of that Church, though, of course, he was free to exercise that unimportant function known as preaching. He could not preach within a church, however. If he wished to try and save souls by preaching, that was his own business. He would not do so with the sanction of the Church. He was anxious to save the soul of Archie Brown, at any rate. He assumed that Archie had a soul in embryo, ready to be hatched, and it was clear to Harold that Mr. Playdell was anxious to save it from being addled before it had pecked its way out of its shell. Therefore Harold had a considerable respect for Mr. Playdell, though he had been one of the unprofitable servants of the Church.
He thought of the earnest words of the man--of the earnest way in which he had begged to be given the chance of returning the service, which he believed was about to be done to him by Harold.
He had been greatly in earnest; but that fact only made his words the more ridiculous.
“What service could he possibly do me?” Harold thought, when he had had his laugh, recalling the outstretched hand of Mr. Playdell, and his eager eyes. “_What service could he possibly do me? What service?_”
He was rooted to the pavement. The driver of a passing hansom pulled up opposite him, taking the fact of his stopping so suddenly as an indication that he wanted a hansom.
He took no notice of the hansom, and it passed up the square. He remained so long lost in thought, that his cigar, so strongly impregnated with sound Conservative principles, went out like any Radical weed, or the penny Pickwick of the Labour Processionist.
He dropped the unsmoked end, and felt for his pocket-handkerchief. He raised his hat and wiped his forehead.