Mrs. Walter and Mollie were at their mid-day Sunday dinner. Stone Cottage, where they lived, stood at the top of the village street. It had a fair-sized drawing-room and a little bandbox of a dining-room, with three bedrooms and an attic, and a garden of about half an acre. Its rent was under thirty pounds a year, and it was as nice a little country home as a widow lady with a very small income and her daughter could wish for.

Mrs. Walter's husband had been a schoolmaster. He was a brilliant scholar and would certainly have risen high in his profession. But he had died within two years of their marriage, leaving her almost unprovided for. She had the income from an insurance policy of a thousand pounds and he had left the manuscript of a schoolbook, which was to have been the first of many such. One of his colleagues had arranged for its publication on terms not as favourable as they should have been, but it had brought her in something every year, and its sales had increased until now they produced a respectable yearly sum. For twenty years she had acted as matron in one of the boarding-houses of the school at which her husband had been assistant master. It had been a hard life, and she was a delicate woman, always with the fear before her of losing her post before she could save enough to live on and keep Mollie with her. The work, for which she was not well suited, had tried her, and it was with a feeling of immense relief and thankfulness that she at last reached the point at which she could give it up, and live her own quiet life with her daughter. She could not, in fact, have gone on with it much longer, and kept what indifferent health she had; and looking back she was inclined to wonder how she had stood it for so long. Every morning that she woke up in her quiet little cottage brought a blissful sense of relief at being free from all the stress and worry of that uncongenial life, and no place she could have found to live in would have been too quiet and retired for her.

She was a thin colourless woman, with whatever good looks she may have had in her youth washed out of her by ill-health and an anxious life. But Mollie was a pretty girl, soft and round and dimpled, and wanting only encouragement to break into merriment and chatter. She needed a good deal of encouragement, though. She was shy, and diffident about herself. Her mother had kept her as retired as possible from the busy noisy boys' life by which they had been surrounded. The housemaster and his wife had not been sympathetic to either of them. They were snobs, and had daughters of their own, not so pretty as Mollie, nor so nice. There had been slights, which had extended themselves to the day school at which she had been educated. During the two years before they had settled down at Abington she had been at a school in Paris, first as a pupil, then as a teacher. She had gained her French, but not much in the way of self-confidence. She too was pleased enough to live quietly in the country; she had had quite enough of living in a crowd. And Abington had been delightful to them, not only from the pleasure they had from the pretty cottage, all their own, but from the beauty of the country, and from the kindness with which they had been received by the Vicar and Mrs. Mercer, who had given them an intimacy which had not come into their lives before. For Mrs. Walter had dropped out from among her husband's friends, and had made no new ones as long as she had remained at the school.

"You know, dear," Mollie was saying, "I rather dreaded going to the Abbey. I thought they might be sniffy and stuck up. But they're not a bit. I do think they are three of the nicest girls I've ever met, Mother. Don't you?"

"Yes, I think they are very nice," said Mrs. Walter. "But you must be a little careful. I think that is what the Vicar's warning meant."

"What, Mother?"

"Well, you know he said that you should be careful about going there too much—never without a special invitation. He is so kind and thoughtful for us that I think he must have feared that they might perhaps take you up at first, as you are the only girl in the place besides themselves, and then drop you. In many ways their life is so different from what ours can be that there might be a danger of that, though I don't think they would do it consciously."

"Oh, no; they're much too nice for that. Still, of course, I should hate to feel that I was poking myself in. Don't you think I might go to tea this afternoon, Mother? Caroline did ask me, you know, and I'm sure she meant it."

Mollie had been to church alone that morning, and the Grafton girls had taken her round the garden of the Abbey afterwards.

"I don't know what to say," said Mrs. Walter, hesitatingly. "I can't help wishing you had waited for the Vicar and Mrs. Mercer afterwards, and walked back with them, as we generally do."

"It would have been so difficult to refuse. They introduced me to Beatrix and to Mr. Grafton, and they were all so nice, and seemed to take it for granted that I should go with them. I thought perhaps the Vicar and Mrs. Mercer would have come over too. He likes them so much, and says they make him feel so at home there. He has helped them a lot getting into order."

"He is one of those men who likes to help everybody," said Mrs. Walter. "Nobody could possibly have been kinder to us than he has been, from the beginning. We are very fortunate indeed to have found such a nice clergyman here. It might have been so different. We must be especially careful not to give him the slightest reason to think that he doesn't come first with us."

"Oh, of course, he and Mrs. Mercer would always be our chief friends here. But you see, Mother dear, I've had so few girl friends, and I think these really might be. I love than all, especially Beatrix. She's sweet, and I believe she'd like to be friends. When I said I must ask you first, she said you couldn't possibly object, and I must come."

"Well, dear, of course, you could, in the ordinary way. But you know we nearly always go to tea at the Vicarage on Sunday afternoons. If you had walked home with them they would have been sure to ask you. I expect the Vicar will, at Sunday-school this afternoon. Wouldn't it look ungracious if you said you were going somewhere else?"

Poor Mollie could not deny that it might, but looked so downcast that her mother suggested waiting to see if the Vicar did ask her, but without suggesting that she should accept the invitation if he did.

Mollie was a good girl, and had the reward which does not always attend goodness. She made up her mind that it would not be right to forsake old friends for new ones, that she would walk back with the Vicar after Sunday-school as usual, and if by some fortunate chance he omitted to ask her and her mother to tea she would then go to the Abbey.

The Vicar came out as she passed his house with his Bible in his hand. "Well, Mollie," he said. "What became of you after church this morning? I hope your mother isn't unwell."

"She didn't sleep well last night, and I made her stay in bed," said Mollie. "But she's up now."

She expected that the Vicar's invitation would then be forthcoming, but he said nothing.

She waited for him after school as he liked her to do, but as he came out he said: "Well, I suppose you're going home now, dear." He had dropped into the way of calling her dear within a short time of their arrival, and she liked it. She had never known her own father, nor any man who used protecting or affectionate speech towards her. "I must wait for Mrs. Mercer. We are going to the Abbey together."

Mollie was vastly relieved. "Oh, then, perhaps we can go together," she said. "They asked me this morning."

He did not look so pleased as she had thought he would, for he had always shown himself ready for her company, wherever it might be, and had told her more than once that he didn't know what he had done for company before she came. "They asked you, did they?" he said. "Didn't they ask your mother too?"

"No. I went over with them after church. It was the girls who asked me."

"Did they ask you to go over with them after church?"

"Oh, yes. I shouldn't have gone without an invitation. I remembered what you had said."

"But I hope you didn't hang about as if you were looking for one. You know, Mollie, you must be very careful about that sort of thing. If these girls turn out to be thoroughly nice, as I quite hope they will, it will be nice for you to go to the Abbey sometimes. It will make a change in your life. But you see you haven't mixed with that sort of people before, and I am very anxious that you shan't make mistakes. I would rather you went there first with me—or Mrs. Mercer."

Mollie felt some offence at it being supposed possible that she should hang about for an invitation. But she knew that men were like that—clumsy in their methods of expression; they meant nothing by it. And it was kind of him to take this interest in her behalf.

"Thank you," she said. "Of course I should be careful not to go unless they really wanted me. But I'm sure they did by the way they asked me. If you and Mrs. Mercer are going too that will be all the better."

"Ought you to leave your mother alone?" he asked. "I quite thought you had hurried back to her this morning. If she isn't well, it was a little thoughtless, wasn't it, Mollie, to stay behind like that? She might have been worrying herself as to what had become of you."

"Oh, no," she said artlessly. "She would have thought I was with you. I have once or twice been to the Vicarage after church when she has stayed at home. And she didn't mind my going this afternoon a bit."

Mrs. Mercer was seen bearing down upon them. "Oh well," he said, not very graciously, "I suppose you had better come. But you mustn't let the attentions of the girls at the Abbey turn your head, Mollie; and above all you mustn't get into the way of leaving your mother to be with them. They have asked Mollie to tea," he said as his wife came up. "So we can all go together."

"Oh, I'm so glad," said Mrs. Mercer. "I thought you might wonder, dear, why we hadn't asked you and Mrs. Walter to the Vicarage this afternoon. But you see, Mr. Grafton is only here on Saturdays and Sundays, and the Vicar has a good many things to talk over with him; so we thought we'd invite ourselves to tea there—at least, go there, rather early, and if they like to ask us to stay to tea, well they can."

"Really, my dear!" expostulated the Vicar, "you put things in a funny way. It's no more for people like ourselves to drop in at a house like the Abbey and ask for a cup of tea than to go to Mrs. Walter, for instance."

"No, dear, of course not," said Mrs. Mercer soothingly.

They went into the park through the hand gate, and when they had got a little way along the path an open motor-car passed them a little way off on the road. It was driven by a girl in a big tweed coat, and another girl similarly attired sat by her. Behind were an old lady and gentleman much befurred, and a third girl on the back seat.

"The Pembertons!" said the Vicar in a tone of extreme annoyance. "Now what on earth do they want over here? They can't surely be coming to pay their first call on a Sunday, and I'm sure they haven't called already or I should have heard of it."

"Perhaps they are just going through the park," said Mrs. Mercer, which suggestion her husband accepted until they came in sight of the house and saw the empty car standing before it.

"Just like them to pay a formal call on a Sunday!" he said. "I'm very annoyed that this should have happened. I was going to give Grafton a warning about those people. They're not the sort of girls for his girls to know—loud and slangy and horsey! I abhor that sort of young woman. However, I suppose we shall have to be polite to them now they're here. But I don't want you to have anything to do with them, Mollie. I should keep in the background if I were you, as much as possible. And I dare say they won't stay very long."

They were taken up to the long gallery, which seemed to be full of talk as they entered it. It was a chilly windy day, and the two girls stood in front of one of the fires, of which there were two burning, while old Mr. and Mrs. Pemberton were sitting by the other. All four of them were talking at once, in loud clear voices, and there were also present, besides the Grafton family and Worthing, two young men, one of whom was talking louder than anybody.

The entrance of the Vicar had the effect of stopping the flow for a moment, but it was resumed again almost immediately, and was never actually discontinued by the two young men, who were talking to Caroline, until she left them to greet the new arrivals.

"Ah, that's right; I'm glad you've come," said Grafton. "I suppose you know Mr. and Mrs. Pemberton. We've just discovered they're old friends of my wife's people."

"No, I don't think that we've ever met before," said Mrs. Pemberton, addressing herself to the Vicar, who stood awkwardly beside her. She had the air of not minding to whom she addressed herself as long as she was not asked to discontinue addressing somebody. "I suppose you're the clergyman here. It's been rather beyond our beat, you know, until we got the car, and, of course, there hasn't been anybody here for years. Nice to have the place occupied again, isn't it? Must make a lot of difference to you, I should think. And such nice people too! Yes, it's odd, isn't it? Mr. Francis Parry came to spend the week-end with us—my son brought him—and he asked us if we knew the Graftons who had just bought this place, and we said we didn't but were going to call on them when they'd got settled in; and then suddenly I remembered and said: 'Didn't one of the Graftons marry Lord Handsworth's sister, and she died?' Well, I've known the Handsworths ever since I was a girl, and that's a good many years ago, as you may imagine. You needn't trouble to contradict me, you know."

She looked up at him with a sharp smile. She was a hard-bitten old lady, with a face full of wrinkles in a skin that looked as if it had been out in the sun and rain for years, as indeed it had, and a pair of bright searching eyes. The Vicar returned her smile. One would have said that she had already made a conquest of him, in spite of his previous disapprobation, and her having taken no particular pains to do so.

"Was Mrs. Grafton Lord Handsworth's sister?" he asked.

"Yes. Ain't I telling you so? Ruth Handsworth she was, but I don't think I ever knew her. She was of the second family, and I never saw much of the old man after he married again. Well, Francis Parry suggested walking over with my son. He's a friend of these people. So we thought we might as well drop ceremony and all come. Have you got a clothing-club in this village?"

In the meantime, on the other side of the fire-place, old Mr. Pemberton was giving his host some information about the previous inhabitants of the Abbey. He was rather deaf, and addressed his opponent in conversation as if his disability were the common lot of humankind, which probably accounted for the high vocal tone of the Pemberton family in general. "When I was a young fellow," he was saying, "there was no house in the neighb'r'ood more popular than this. There were four Brett girls, and all of them as pretty as paint. All we young fellows from twenty miles round and more were quarrelling about them. They all stuck together and wouldn't look at a soul of us—not for years—and then they all married in a bunch, and not a single one of them into the county. I was in love with the eldest myself, but I was only a boy at Eton and she was twenty-four. If it had been the other way about we might have kept one of them. Good old times those were. The young fellows used to ride over here, or drive their dog-carts, which were just beginning to come in in those days, and those who couldn't afford horseflesh used to walk. There were one or two sporting parsons in the neighb'r'ood then, and some nice young fellows from the Rectories. Sir Charles Dawbarn, the judge—his father was rector of Feltham when I was a young fellow. He wanted to marry the second one, but she wouldn't look at him. Nice fellow he was too. They don't seem to send us the parsons they used to in the old days. We've got a fellow at Grays goes about in a cassock, just like a priest. Behaves like one too. Asked my wife when he first came if she'd ever been to confession. Ha! ha! ha! She told him what she thought of him. But he's not a bad fellow, and we get on all right. What sort of a fellow have you got here? They can make themselves an infernal nuisance sometimes if they're not the right sort; and not many of them are nowadays, at least in these parts."

"That's our Vicar talking to Mrs. Pemberton," said Grafton in as low a voice as he thought would penetrate.

"Eh! What!" shouted the old man. "Gobbless my soul! Yes. I didn't notice he was a parson. Hope he didn't hear what I said. Hate to hurt anybody's feelings. Let's get further away. I've had enough of this fire."

Miss Waterhouse was talking to Mrs. Mercer by one of the windows, and all the young people had congregated round the further fire-place. The two older men joined them, and presently there was a suggestion of going over the house to see what had been done with it.

Mollie found herself with Beatrix, who, as she told her mother afterwards, was very sweet to her, not allowing her to feel out of it, though there were so many people there, and she was the least important of all of them. She was not alone with Beatrix however. Bertie Pemberton stuck close to them, and took the leading part in the conversation, though Beatrix did her share, with a dexterous unflustered ability which Mollie, who said very little, could not but admire. She judged Bertie Pemberton to be immensely struck with Beatrix, and did not wonder at it. She herself was beginning to have that enthusiastic admiration for her which generous girls accord to others more beautiful and more gifted than themselves. Everything about Beatrix pleased her—her lovely face and delicious colouring, the grace of her young form, the way she did her hair, the way she wore her pretty clothes. And she was as 'nice' as she was beautiful, with no affectations about her, and no 'airs,' which she very well might have given herself, considering how richly she was endowed by nature and circumstance. That Bertie Pemberton seemed to admire her in much the same way as Mollie herself disposed her to like him, though her liking was somewhat touched with awe, for he was of the sort of young man whom Mollie in her retired life had looked upon as of a superior order, with ways that would be difficult to cope with if chance should ever bring one of them into her own orbit. He was, in fact, a good-natured young man, employed temporarily with stocks and shares until he should succeed to the paternal acres, of the pattern of other young men who had received a conventionally expensive education and gained a large circle of acquaintances thereby, if no abiding interest in the classical studies which had formed its basis. He seemed to be well satisfied with himself, and indeed there was no reason why he should not have been, since so far there had been little that he had wanted in life which he had not obtained. If he should chance to want Beatrix in the near future, which Mollie, looking forward as she listened and observed, thought not unlikely, there might be some obstacles to surmount, but at this stage there was nothing to daunt him. He handled the situation in the way dictated by his temperament and experience, kept up a free flow of good-humoured chaff, and under cover of it expressed admiration that had to be fenced with, but never went beyond the point at which it would have been necessary for his satisfaction that a third party should not have been present. As Beatrix, with her arm in Mollie's, took pains to include her in the conversation, he couldn't ignore Mollie; nor did he appear to wish to do so. She was a pretty girl too, and he was only using his ordinary methods with a pretty girl. If she would have found a difficulty in fencing with him in the manner he would have expected of her had they been alone together, she was spared the exercise, as Beatrix lightly took her defence on her own shoulders.

As Bertie Pemberton did not lower his voice below the family pitch, Mollie was a little anxious lest some of his speeches should come to the ear of the Vicar, who was not far removed from them as they started on their tour of investigation. He seemed, however, to have found an unexpected satisfaction in the society of Mrs. Pemberton, on whom he was in close attendance, with a back the contour of which expressed deference. She appeared to be giving him advice upon certain matters in connection with his own parish, and drawing upon his sympathy in matters connected with her own. Just before Bertie Pemberton managed to let the rest of the party get a room or two ahead, by showing great interest in the old books with which the library was furnished, Mollie heard her say to him in her carrying voice: "Well, you must come over and see it for yourself. I don't know why we've never met you; but Abington is rather beyond our beat, unless there's something or somebody to come for. It's such a pleasure to meet a sensible clergyman. I wish there were more of them."

Mollie was glad that her friend had impressed the loud-speaking rather formidable lady in this way, but was inclined to wonder what he would do with the invitation, for he knew what he thought of the Pembertons; and he had so often announced that he would have nothing whatever to do with such people, and was glad that they were so far away. She had heard the story of Bertie Pemberton's rudeness to him, but saw now how it might have been. Bertie's free manner might easily be taken for rudeness by somebody who did not know him. No doubt there had been 'faults on both sides.' She hoped that the Vicar's objections to the Pemberton family would not lead him to refuse them another chance. If there was no more harm in the Pemberton girls than there apparently was in their brother he would find that he had misjudged them.

The Pemberton girls—Nora, Effie and Kate—were cut out of the corresponding female pattern to their brother's. They were good-natured and well satisfied with themselves. But their self-satisfaction did not prevent them from taking a lively interest in other people, and their good-nature made them known to a large circle of acquaintances as 'good pals.' This reputation, though leading to much pleasant intercourse with members of either sex, is not the most favourable to matrimonial adjustments, and the youngest of them had already reached the middle twenties. But the shadow of spinsterhood had hardly yet begun to throw itself across their breezy path. With their horses and their golf, their visits to other country houses and sometimes to London, their father's large house, seldom entirely without guests in it, and above all their always increasing friendships, they had all that they wanted at present. Out of all their 'pals' there would be some day one for each of them in whose company they would continue the lives that they now found so pleasant. Almost anybody would do, if he was a good pal and had enough money. Falling in love was outside their beat. But it was probable that if one of them ever did fall in love, the other two would follow her suit. They were human enough in their primitive instincts.

Barbara accompanied Nora and Kate. She took a keen interest in them as types new to her, and they thought her a bright and modest child whose tastes for a country life were worth cultivating. "You must hack about as much as you can till next season, and get used to it," said Kate. "Then we'll take you out cubbing, and by the time regular hunting begins you ought to be able to sit as tight as any of us. It isn't a tiptop country, but you can get a lot of fun out of it."

"Better than jogging about in the Park, anyhow," said Nora. "I wouldn't live in London if you paid me."

Effie Pemberton and Bertie's friend Francis Parry were conducted by Caroline. Francis was of the same type as Bertie—smooth-haired, well-dressed and self-confident, but on a quieter plane. He had been one of Caroline's regular dancing partners, had dined sometimes at the house in London, and stayed sometimes in the same houses in the country. She liked him, and had found him more interesting than most of the young men in whose company she had disported herself. He had tastes somewhat similar to hers, and it was a pleasure to point out to him what she had done to the house, and to receive his commendation. Effie Pemberton, who would much rather have been looking over the stables, found herself rather de trop, and presently allied herself to Worthing, to whom she said with a jerk of the thumb: "I think it's a case there."

But it was not a case, at least as far as Caroline was concerned.