They were standing by one of the old monks' fish stews, which made such a charming feature of the yew-set formal garden, when a step was heard on the path and they turned to see a cheerful-looking gentleman approaching them, with a smile of welcome on his handsome features. He was a tall man of middle-age, dressed in almost exaggerated country fashion, in rough home-spun, very neat about the gaitered legs, and was followed by a bull-dog of ferocious but endearing aspect. "Ah!" he exclaimed, in a loud and breezy voice as he approached them, "I thought it must be you when I saw your name on the order. If you've forgotten me I shall never forgive you."

Grafton was at a loss for a moment. Then his face cleared. "Jimmy Worthing," he said. "Of course. They did mention your name. Cara, this is Mr. Worthing. We were at school together a hundred years or so ago. My eldest daughter, Caroline."

Worthing was enchanted, and said so. He was one of those cheerful voluble men who never do have any difficulty in saying so. With his full but active figure and fresh clean-shaven face he was a pleasant object of the countryside, and Caroline's heart warmed to him as he smiled his commonplaces and showed himself so abundantly friendly. It appeared from the conversation that followed that he had been a small boy in George Grafton's house at Eton when Grafton had been a big one, that they had not met since, except once, years before at Lord's, but were quite pleased to meet now. Also that Worthing had been agent to the Abington property for the past twelve years, and to the Wilborough property adjoining it for about half that time. A good deal of this information was addressed to Caroline with friendly familiarity. She was used to the tone from well-preserved middle-aged men. It was frankly accepted in the family that all three of the girls were particularly attractive to the mature and even the over-ripe male, and the reason given was that they made such a pal of their father that they knew the technique of making themselves so. Caroline had even succeeded in making herself too attractive to a widowed Admiral during her first season, and had had the shock of her life in being asked to step up a generation and a half at the end of it. She was inclined to be a trifle wary of the 'my dears' of elderly gentlemen, but she had narrowly watched Worthing during the process of his explanations and would not have objected if he had called her 'my dear.' He did not do so, however, though his tone to her implied it, and she answered him, where it was necessary, in the frank and friendly fashion that was so attractive in her and her sisters.

They all went over the stables and outhouses together, and then Worthing suggested a run round the estate in the car, with reference chiefly to the rearing and eventual killing of game.

"We promised to go to tea at the Vicarage," said Caroline, as her father warmly adopted the suggestion. "I suppose we ought to keep in with the Vicar. I don't know his name, but he seems a very important person here."

She had her eye on Worthing. She wanted an opinion of the Vicar, by word or by sign.

She got none. "Oh, you've seen him already, have you?" he said. "I was going to suggest you should come and have tea with me. We should be at my house by about half-past three, and it's a mile further on your road."

"We might look in on the Vicar—what's his name, by the by?—and excuse ourselves,"—said Grafton, "I want to see the coverts, and we haven't too much time. I don't suppose he'll object, will he?"

"Oh, no, we'll go and put it right with him," said Worthing. "He won't mind. His name is Mercer—a very decent fellow; does a lot of work and reads a lot of books."

"What kind of books?" asked Caroline, who also read a good many of them. She was a little disappointed that Worthing had not expressed himself with more salt on the subject of the Vicar. She had that slight touch of malice which relieves the female mind from insipidity, and she was quite sure that a more critical attitude towards the Vicar would have been justified, and might have provided amusement. But she thought that Mr. Worthing must be either a person of no discrimination, or else one of those rather tiresome people, a peacemaker. She reserved to herself full right of criticism towards the Vicar, but would not be averse from the discovery of alleviating points about him, as they would be living so close together, and must meet occasionally.

"What kind of books?" echoed Worthing. "Oh, I don't know. Books." Which seemed to show that Caroline would search in vain among his own amiable qualities for sympathy in her literary tastes.

They all got into the big car and arrived at the Vicarage, where they were introduced to Mrs. Mercer, and allowed to depart again after apologies given and accepted, and the requisite number of minutes devoted to polite conversation.

The Vicar and his wife stood at the front door as they packed themselves again into the car. "Oh, what delightful people!" the little lady exclaimed as they drove off, with valedictory waving of hands from all three of them. "They will be an acquisition to us, won't they? I have never seen a prettier girl than Miss Grafton, and such charming manners, and so nicely dressed. And he is so nice too, and how pretty it is to see father and daughter so fond of one another! Quite an idyll, I call it. Aren't you pleased, Albert dear? I am."

Albert dear was not pleased, as the face he turned upon her showed when she had followed him into his study. "The way that Worthing takes it upon himself to set aside my arrangements and affect a superiority over me in the place where I should be chief is really beyond all bearing," he said angrily. "It has happened time and again before, and I am determined that it shall not happen any further. The very next time I see him I shall give him a piece of my mind. My patience is at an end. I will not stand it any longer."

Mrs. Mercer drooped visibly. She had to recall exactly what had happened before she could get at the causes of his displeasure, which was a painful shock to her. He had given, for him, high praise to the new-comers over the luncheon-table, and she had exulted in the prospect of having people near at hand and able to add so much to the pleasures of life with whom she could make friends and not feel that she was disloyal to her husband in doing so. And her raptures over them after she had met them in the flesh had not at all exaggerated her feelings. She was of an enthusiastic disposition, apt to admire profusely where she admired at all, and these new people had been so very much worthy of admiration, with their good looks and their wealth and their charming friendly manners. However, if it was only Mr. Worthing with whom her husband was annoyed, that perhaps could be got out of the way, and he would be ready to join her in praise of the Graftons.

"Well, of course, it was rather annoying that they should be whisked off like that when we had hoped to have had them to talk to comfortably," she said. "But I thought you didn't mind, dear. Mr. Grafton only has a few hours here, and I suppose it is natural that he should want to go round the estate. We shall see plenty of them when they come here to live."

"That is not what I am objecting to," said her husband. "Mr. Grafton made his excuses in the way a gentleman should, and it would have been absurd to have kept him to his engagement, though the girl might just as well have stayed. It can't be of the least importance that she should see the places where the high birds may be expected to come over, or whatever it is that they want to see. I don't care very much for the girl. There's a freedom about her manners I don't like."

"She has no mother, poor dear," interrupted Mrs. Mercer. "And her father evidently adores her. She would be apt to be older than her years in some respects. She was very nice to me."

"As I say," proceeded the Vicar dogmatically, "I've no complaint against the Graftons coming to apologise for not keeping their engagement. But I have a complaint when a man like Worthing comes into my house—who hardly ever takes the trouble to ask me into his—and behaves as if he had the right to over-ride me. I hate that detestable swaggering high-handed way of his, carrying off everything as if nobody had a right to exist except himself. He's no use to anybody here—hardly ever comes to church, and takes his own way in scores of matters that he ought to consult me about; even opposes my decisions if he sees fit, and seems to think that an insincere word or smile when he meets me takes away all the offence of it. It doesn't, and it shan't do so in this instance. I shall have it out with Worthing once and for all. When these new people come here I am not going to consent to be a cipher in my own parish, or as a priest of the church take a lower place than Mr. Worthing's; who is after all nothing more than a sort of gentleman bailiff."

"Well, he has got a sort of way of taking matters into his own hands," said Mrs. Mercer, "that isn't always very agreeable, perhaps. But he is nice in many ways, and I shouldn't like to quarrel with him."

She knew quite well, if she did not admit it to herself, that it would be impossible to quarrel with Worthing. She herself was inclined to like him, for he was always excessively friendly, and created the effect of liking her. But she did feel that he was inclined to belittle her husband's dignity, in the way in which he took his own course, and, if it conflicted with the Vicar's wishes, set his remonstrances aside with a breezy carelessness that left them both where they were, and himself on top. Also he was not regular in his attendance at church, though he acted as churchwarden. She objected to this not so much on purely religious grounds as because it was so uncomplimentary to her husband, which were also the grounds of the Vicar's objections.

"I don't wish to quarrel with him either," said the Vicar. "I don't wish to quarrel with anybody. I shall tell him plainly what I think, once for all, and leave it there. It will give him a warning, too, that I am not to be put aside with these new people. If handled properly I think they may be valuable people to have in the parish. A man like Grafton is likely to want to do the right thing when he comes to live in the country, and he is quite disposed, I should say, to do his duty by the church and the parish. I shall hope to show him what it is, and I shall not allow myself to be interfered with by Mr. Worthing. I shall make it my duty, too, to give Grafton some warning about the people around. Worthing is a pastmaster in the art of keeping in with everybody, worthy or unworthy, and if the Graftons are guided by him they may let themselves in for friendships and intimacies which they may be sorry for afterwards."

"You mean the Manserghs," suggested Mrs. Mercer.

"I wasn't thinking of them particularly, but of course they are most undesirable people. They are rich and live in a big house, and therefore everything is forgiven them. Worthing, of course, is hand in glove with them—with a man with the manners of a boor and a woman who was divorced, and an actress at that—a painted woman."

"Well, she is getting on in years now, and I suppose people have forgotten a lot," said Mrs. Mercer. "And her first husband didn't divorce her, did he? She divorced him."

"What difference does that make? You surely are not going to stand up for her, are you? Especially after the way in which she behaved to you!"

"No," said Mrs. Mercer doubtfully. It was Lady Mansergh's behaviour to her husband that had hitherto been the chief cause of offence, her 'past' having been ignored until the time of the quarrel, or as the Vicar had since declared, unknown. "Oh, no, Albert, I think she is quite undesirable, as you say. And it would be a thousand pities if that nice girl, and her younger sisters, were to get mixed up with a woman like that. I think you should give Mr. Grafton a warning. Wilborough is the nearest big house to Abington, and I suppose it is natural that they should be friendly."

"I shall certainly do that. Mr. Grafton and Sir Alexander can shoot together and all that sort of thing, but it would be distinctly wrong for him to allow young girls like his daughters to be intimate with people like the Manserghs."

"The sons are nice, though. Fortunately Lady Mansergh is not their mother."

"Richard is away at sea most of the time, and Geoffrey is not particularly nice, begging your pardon. I saw him in the stalls of a theatre last year with a woman whose hair I feel sure was dyed. He is probably going the same way as his father. It would be an insult to a young and pure girl like Miss Grafton to encourage anything like intimacy between them."

"I expect they will make friends with the Pembertons. There are three girls in their family and three in that."

"It would be a very bad thing if they did. Three girls with the tastes of grooms, and the manners too. I shall never forget the insolent way in which that youngest one asked me if I didn't know what a bit of ribbon tied round a horse's tail meant when I was standing behind her at that meet at Surley Green, and when I didn't move at once that young cub of a brother who was with her said: 'Well, sir, if you want to be kicked!' And then they both laughed in the vulgarest fashion. Really the manners of some of the people about here who ought to know better are beyond belief. The Pembertons have never had the politeness to call on us—which is something to be thankful for, anyhow, though it is, of course, a slight on people in our position, and no doubt meant as such. Of course they will call on the Graftons. They will expect to get something out of them. But I shall warn Grafton to be careful. He won't want his daughters to acquire their stable manners."

"No; that would be a pity. I wish Vera Beckley had been as nice as we thought she was at first. She would have been a nice friend for these girls. I never quite understood why she suddenly took to cutting us dead, and Mrs. Beckley left off asking us to the house, when they had asked us so often and we seemed real friends. I have sometimes thought of asking her. I am sure there is a misunderstanding, which could be cleared up."

The Vicar grew a trifle red. "You will not do anything of the sort," he said. "If the Beckleys can do without us we can do very well without them."

"You used to be so fond of Vera, Albert," said Mrs. Mercer reflectively, "and she of you. You often used to say it was like having a daughter of your own. I wonder what it was that made her turn like that."

"We were deceived in her, that was all," said Albert, who had recovered his equanimity. "She is not a nice girl. A clergyman has opportunities of finding out these things, and——"

"Oh, then there was something that you knew about, and that you haven't told me."

"I don't wish to be cross-examined, Gertrude. You must be content to leave alone the things that belong to my office. None of the Beckleys shall ever darken my doors again. Let that be enough. If we have to meet them sometimes at the Abbey we can be polite to them without letting it go any further. There are really very few people hereabouts whom I should like to see the Graftons make friends with, and scarcely any young ones. Denis Cooper is a thoughtful well-conducted young fellow, but he is to be ordained at Advent and I suppose he will not be here much. Rhoda and Ethel are nice girls too. I think a friendship might well be encouraged there. It would be pleasant for them to have a nice house like Abington to go to, and their seriousness might be a good thing for the Grafton girls, who I should think would be likely to be affected by their father's evident wealth. It is a temptation I should like to see them preserved from."

"Rhoda and Ethel are a little old for them."

"So much the better. Yes; that is a friendship that I think might be helpful to both parties, and I shall do my best to encourage it. I should like to see the Grafton girls thoroughly intimate at Surley Rectory before Mrs. Carruthers comes back. She has behaved so badly to the Coopers that she would be quite likely to prevent it if she were here, out of spite."

"Well, I must stand up a little for Mrs. Carruthers," said Mrs. Mercer. "Rhoda and Ethel are good girls, I know, and do a lot of useful work in the parish, but they do like to dominate everything and everybody, and it was hardly to be expected that Mrs. Carruthers in her position would stand it."

"I don't agree with you at all," said her husband. "She was a mere girl when she married and came to live at Surley Park; she is hardly more than a girl now. She ought to have been thankful to have their help and advice, as they had practically run the parish for years. Actually to tell them to mind their own business, and practically to turn them out of her house, over that affair of her laundry maid—well, I don't say what I think about it, but I am entirely on the side of Rhoda and Ethel; and so ought you to be."

"Well, I know they acted for the best; but after all they had made a mistake. The young man hadn't come after the laundry maid at all."

"So it was said; but we needn't discuss it. They were most forgiving, and prepared to be all that was kind and sympathetic when Mrs. Carruthers lost her husband; and how did she return it? Refused to see them, just as she refused to see me when I called on Cooper's behalf—and in my priestly capacity too. No, Gertrude, there is nothing to be said on behalf of Mrs. Carruthers. She is a selfish worldly young woman, and her bereavement, instead of inclining her towards a quiet and sober life, seems to have had just the opposite effect. A widow of hardly more than two years, she goes gadding about all over the place, and behaves just as if her husband's death were a release to her instead of——"

"Well, I must say that I think it was rather a release, Albert. Mr. Carruthers had everything to make life happy, as you have often said, but drink was his curse, and if he had not been killed he might have spoilt her life for her. You said that too, you know, at the time."

"Perhaps I did. I was terribly upset at the time of the accident. It seemed so dreadful for a mere girl to be left widowed in that way, and I was ready to give her all the sympathy and help I could. But she would have none of it, and turned out hard and unfeeling, instead of being softened by the blow that had been dealt her, as a good woman would have been. She might have reformed her husband, but she did nothing of the sort; and now, as I say, she behaves as if there was nothing to do in the world except spend money and enjoy one's self. She would be a bad influence for these young girls that are coming here, and I hope they will not have too much to do with her. If we can get them interested in good things instead of amusements, we shall only be doing our duty. Not that healthy amusement is to be deprecated by any means. It isn't our part to be kill-joys. But with ourselves as their nearest neighbours, and nice active girls like the Coopers not far off, and one or two more, they will have a very pleasant little society, and in fact we ought all to be very happy together."

"Yes. It is nice looking forward to having neighbours that we can be friends with. I do hope nothing will happen to make it awkward."

"Why should anything happen to make it awkward? We don't know much about the Graftons yet, but they seem to be nice people. At any rate we can assume that they are, until it is proved to the contrary. That is only Christian. Just because so many of the people round us are not what they should be is no reason why these new-comers shouldn't be."

"Oh, I am sure they are nice. I think I should rather like to go and tell Mrs. Walter and Mollie about them, Albert. It will be delightful for them to have people at the Abbey—especially for Mollie, who has so few girl friends."

"We might go over together," said the Vicar. "There are one or two little things I want Mollie to do for me. Yes, it will be nice for her, if the Grafton girls turn out what they should be. We shall have to give the Walters a little advice. They haven't been used to the life of large houses. I think they ought to go rather slow at first."

"Oh, Mollie is such a dear girl, and has been well brought up. I don't think she would be likely to make any mistakes."

"I don't know that she would. But I shall talk to her about it. She is a dear girl, as you say. I look upon her almost as a daughter, though she has been here such a short time. I should like her to acquit herself well. She will, I'm sure, if she realises that this new chance for making friends comes through us. Yes, let us go over to the cottage, Gertrude. It is early yet. We can ask Mrs. Walter for a cup of tea."