The whole Grafton family and Miss Waterhouse, as the Vicar had discovered through one of those channels open to Vicars who take an interest in the intimate doings of their flock, had been asked to dine at Surley Park on that Sunday evening. It was not, of course, a dinner-party, to which the Bishop might have objected, but considering the number of guests staying in the house it was near enough to give pleasure on that account to Barbara and Young George. Their view of the entertainment was satisfied by the costumes, the setting of the table, and the sparkling but decorous conversation, in which both of them were encouraged to take a due share; the Bishop's by the fact that there was no soup and the joint was cold, which might almost have justified its being regarded as Sunday supper, if one were of the religious school which considered that meal to be the fitting close of the day; also by the presence of the Curate of the parish, taking his due refreshment of mind and body after the labours of the day.

The guests from outside were chiefly relations of Mrs. Carruthers and of the Bishop, elderly well-placed people for the most part, not markedly ecclesiastical in their interests or conversation, though affairs of the church were not left untouched upon, out of deference to their distinguished relative. But there were one or two younger people, and among them an American bride, Lady Wargrave, who was on her first visit to England, and kept the company alive by her comments and criticisms on all that was new to her in the country of her adoption.

A matter of some interest to the Graftons was the way in which Denis Cooper had acquitted himself before the eyes of his superior officer in the religious exercises of the day. They had no particular interest in him personally, as he was not of the character to expend himself in social intercourse with his neighbours against the obstacles of his home. He and his sisters appeared regularly at all the country houses around when it was a question of some festivity to which the invitations were general, but the two ladies were not exactly popular among their neighbours, and had always hitherto kept a firm hand upon the doings of their much younger brother. They disliked his going intimately to houses at which they themselves were not made welcome, and during the two months since he had taken ostensible charge of his father's parish he had not done so. So the Graftons hardly knew him, but were interested on general grounds in the little comedy of patronage which was being enacted before their eyes. It was fresh to them, these desires and jealousies in connection with a factor of country life which hardly shows up in a city, except in those circles in which all church affairs are of importance. All over the country are these pleasant houses and gardens and glebes, with an income larger or smaller attached to them, and a particular class of men to whom their disposal is of extreme interest. In this case there was one of the prizes involved, and they knew at least two of the candidates, for their own Vicar had made it plain enough that he was one of them, and here was the other. Here also was the authority with whom it lay to award the prize. His decision could not be foreseen, but might be guessed at, and any signs of it that might be visible under their eyes were of value.

Their sympathies inclined towards the candidature of Denis Cooper, in spite of their small acquaintance with him. It would be a sporting thing if he were to pull it off, against the handicap of his extreme youth. On the other hand, if their own Vicar should be appointed, he would be removed from the sphere of his present labours and, apart from the relief that this would afford them in itself, it would be followed by another little comedy, in which they would all take a hand themselves. For it would lay with their father to appoint a successor, and it was not to be supposed that he would undertake a task of such importance except in full consultation with themselves. On the balance, however, they were supporters of Denis Cooper, and it looked well for his chances that when they entered the morning-room of Surley Park, where the guests were assembled, the Bishop was seen standing by the fire-place with his hand on the young man's shoulder.

Ella Carruthers found an opportunity before dinner was announced of confiding to Caroline and Beatrix that he had acquitted himself well. "Really I believe I'm going to pull it off," she said. "It's very good of me to take so much trouble about Denis because it means my saddling myself with Rhoda and Ethel, when I should so much like to get rid of them. Still, if I succeed in getting him firmly planted in the Rectory I shall set about finding him a wife, and then they'll have to go. They won't like it, and they'll make trouble, which I shall enjoy very much."

"Was the Bishop pleased with his sermons?" asked Caroline.

"He only preached one," she said. "My uncle performed in the afternoon, I think with the idea of showing him how much better he could do it himself. But of the two I liked Denis's sermon the better. It was more learned, and didn't take so long."

"Was he pleased with Denis?" asked Beatrix. "It looked like it when we came in. I believe they were telling one another funny stories."

"Oh, yes. He said he seemed an honest manly young fellow, and not too anxious to push himself."

"Was that a dig at Rhoda and Ethel, do you suppose?"

"I took it so. I said they were very tiresome in the way they tried to direct everything and everybody, but that Denis wasn't like them at all. All the people in the place loved his old father, and liked him too."

"Do you think he took that in?"

"I hope so, though, of course, he wouldn't commit himself. I think he's sized up Rhoda and Ethel, though, for he asked me when Mrs. Cooper died, and said that he had heard that she had been a very managing woman. I say, did you know that your Lord Salisbury actually came over here to church this afternoon?"

"Our Lord Salisbury!" exclaimed Beatrix.

"I don't think he did any good for himself. I had to ask him to tea, as he hung about after church, and we were all walking up together. But I took care to let my uncle see that I was forced into it. He was quite friendly with him, but didn't give him the whole of his attention, as he seemed to expect. Oh, he sees into things all right, the clever old dear! I should say that Lord Salisbury's forcing himself in like that has put him out of the betting. I don't know what others there are running, but I'd stake a pair of gloves on Denis's chances, and I shall try to do a little more for him still before I've finished."

The number of guests made a general conversation round the dinner-table of infrequent occurrence, though whenever the Bishop showed signs of wishing to address the assembly he was allowed to do so, and Lady Wargrave sometimes succeeded, more by the gaiety and wit of her speech than by its high-pitched note, in making herself listened to by everybody. It was fortunate, however, for what hung upon it, that a certain conversation in which she bore a leading part towards the end of the meal was confined to her end of the table.

She was talking of transatlantic marriages in general, and her own particular. "I'd like everybody to know," she said, "that I married for love. Now do tell me, Bishop, from what you can see at the other end of the table, that you think I am speaking the truth."

Lord Wargrave, at that moment in earnest conversation with a dignified-looking dowager, was good-looking enough, in a rather heavy British way, to make the claim not unreasonable, though he was by no means the equal of his wife in that respect.

"I can believe that you both fell in love with each other," said the Bishop benignly.

"Thank you," said the lady, "I hope you are not being sarcastic. Lots of our girls do marry for the sake of a title, and I won't say that it's not funny to be called My Lady just at first. Still it wears off after a bit, and isn't worth giving up your American citizenship for."

"Would you rather Lord Wargrave had been a plain American citizen instead of an Englishman with a title?" asked Ella.

"Why, sure! I'm telling you so."

"But you do like Englishmen, all the same," suggested the Bishop.

"I'm not going to say that I like Englishmen as much as Americans. Nothing will drag that from me, if I never set foot in the States again. But as to that, Wargrave has promised me a trip every two years. I wouldn't have married him without, though you can see that I adore him, and I'm not ashamed of showing it."

"Well then, you like Englishmen next best to Americans."

"Perhaps I do, though I think Frenchmen are real cute. They've a way with them. With an Englishman you generally have to do more than half yourself. With a Frenchman you've got to be mighty smart to see that you get the chance of doing your half. With an Englishman, when you're once married it's finished, but I should judge that you would have to get busy and keep busy, married to a Frenchman."

Ella Carruthers stole a look at Beatrix, who was seated a few places away from her. She had been talking to her neighbour, but now sat with her eyes fixed upon the speaker. Her colour was a little heightened, but it was impossible to tell from her look what she was thinking. Ella hoped for her sake that the conversation would not be continued on that subject, and prepared her wits to divert it. But the next moment something had been said which changed her feeling from one of sympathy with Beatrix to one of sharp alarm on her behalf.

"A French Marquis came to N'York last fall," pursued Lady Wargrave, "who was the cutest thing in the way of European nobility you ever struck. He talked English like an Amurrcan, and was a poifectly lovely man to look at. One of my girl friends has just gotten engaged to him; I had the noos from her last mail. Of course I wrote back that I was enchanted, but if he had wanted me there'd have been no Marquise yet awhile. But I wasn't rich enough anyway. The Frenchmen who come over are always out for the dollars, the Englishmen let them go by sometimes. Wargrave did. He could have had one of our big fortunes, if he wouldn't rather have had me."

Poor little Beatrix! She was spared the hammer-stroke of hearing her lover's name in public, but there was never any doubt in her mind that it was he. She turned dead white, and kept her eyes fixed upon Lady Wargrave until she had finished her speech and passed on lightly to some other topic. Then she turned to her neighbour and listened to something he was saying to her, but without hearing it, and she was obliged to leave off peeling the orange she held because her hands were trembling.

There happened to be nobody at that end of the table, listening to Lady Wargrave, who could connect her speech with Beatrix, except Ella Carruthers. Beatrix, when she had sat still and silent for a moment, looked at her suddenly with an appealing look, and found her eyes fixed upon her with the deepest concern. That enabled her to overcome her tremors. She would have broken down if Ella, by any word, had drawn attention to her. She suddenly turned to her neighbour and began to chatter. He was an elderly man, interested in his dinner, who had not noticed her sudden pallor. As she talked, her colour came back to her, and she hardly left off talking until the sign was given, rather prematurely, for the ladies to leave the table. Her knees were trembling as she rose from her seat, and she was glad of Ella's arm to support her as she walked from the room.

"No," she said, in answer to a low-spoken word of going upstairs. "I don't want to. Ask if it's he—but I know it is—and tell Caroline to come and tell me."

She made her way to a sofa in a corner of the big drawing-room, and sat down, while the rest of the women clustered around the chimney-piece. She sat there waiting, without thought and without much sensation. She was conscious only of revolt against the blow that had been dealt her, and determination to support it.

Presently Caroline came to her, her soft eyes full of trouble. "My darling!" she said tenderly, sitting down by her.

"You needn't say it," she said quickly. "If he's like that I'm not going to make a scene. Pretend to talk to me, and presently I'll go and talk to the others."

She had an ardent wish to throw it all off from her, not to care, and to show that she didn't care. But her knees were trembling again, and she could not have walked across the room.

Caroline was near tears. "Oh, it's wicked—the way he has treated you," she said. "You're going to forget him, aren't you, my darling B?"

"Of course I am," said Beatrix, hurriedly. "I'll think no more of him at all. I've got you—and Daddy—and the Dragon."

The mention of Miss Waterhouse may have been drawn from her by the approach of that lady, though she had been all the mother to her that she had ever known and she did feel at that moment that there was consolation in her love.

Miss Waterhouse did not allow her tenderness to overcome her authority, though her tenderness was apparent as she said: "Darling B, you won't be feeling well. I have asked Ella to send for the car, and I shall take you home. We will go quietly upstairs, now, before the men come in."

Beatrix protested. She was perfectly all right, and didn't want any fuss made about her. She was rather impatient, and burning to show that she didn't care. But as most of the people towards whom she would have to make the exhibition wouldn't know that she had any reason to care, it seemed hardly worth the expenditure of energy, of which, at that moment, she had none too much to spare. Also she did care, and the thought of getting away quietly and being herself, in whatever guise her feelings might prompt, was immensely soothing. So she and Miss Waterhouse slipped out of the room, and by the time the men came into it were on their way home.

It was Caroline who told her father. She had a little dreaded his first word and look. In some ways, over this affair of Beatrix's, he had not been quite as she had learnt to know him. He had lost that complete mastery which long years of unfailing kindness and gentleness had given him over his children. He had shown annoyance and resentment, and had made complaints, which one who is firmly in authority does not do. Some weakness, under the stress of feeling, had come out in him, instead of the equable strength which his children had learnt to rely on. Perhaps Caroline loved him all the more for it, for it was to her he had come more than to any other for sympathy and support. But she did not want to have to make any further readjustments. Which of the mixed and opposing feelings would he show first, on the news being broken to him—the great relief it would bring to himself, or the sympathy he would certainly feel towards his child who had been hurt.

"Daddy darling," she said, drawing him a little aside, "B and the Dragon have gone home. She heard at dinner that Lassigny is going to be married. She's all right, but the Dragon made her go home."

His face—that of a man whom a sufficiency, but not an overplus, of food and wine and tobacco had put into just accord with the World about him—expressed little but bewilderment. "Heard at dinner!" he echoed. "Who on earth told her?"

"Lady Wargrave. She had had a letter from America."

He threw a look at that resplendent lady, whose high but not unmusical voice was riding the stream of talk. Her beautiful face and form, her graceful vivacity, and the perfection of her attire were such as naturally to have attracted round her magnet-wise the male filings of after-dinner re-assembly. Grafton himself, casting an unattached but attachable eye round him on entering the room, would have made his way instinctively to the group in which she was sitting.

"Damn the woman!" he said vindictively.

Caroline took hold of the lapels of his coat and kissed him, in defiance of company manners. "Hush, darling! The Bishop!" she said.

Throughout the short hour that followed he was vivacious and subdued by turns. He had no more than a few words alone with his hostess. "Poor little B!" she said commiseratingly.

"Yes, poor little B!" he echoed. "Are you sure it's that fellow?"

"Oh, yes, she said so, when I asked her. I didn't tell her why I had asked. You can talk to her about it if you like."

"Oh, good Lord, no!" he said. "I don't want to hear the fellow's name again. What has happened to him is nothing to me, if we've got rid of him. Of course I'm glad of it. It shows I was right about him. Now I shall get my little girl back again."

It was the sort of speech that Caroline had vaguely feared. Ella Carruthers said, with a smile: "You can't expect to keep her long, you know. But I'm glad this is at an end, as you so much disliked it."

Going home in the car, at a comparatively early hour, because bishops are supposed to want to go to bed on Sunday evenings, they talked it over. Bunting had heard the news from Barbara, and was inclined to take a serious view of it.

"I think it's disgraceful to throw over a girl like that," he said. "What are you going to do about it, Dad?"

"There's nothing to be done," said his father, "except to help B to forget all about him. Of course she'll be very much hurt, but when she's had time to think it over she'll see for herself that he wasn't worth what she gave him. It won't want any rubbing in. Better leave him alone altogether, and forget about him ourselves."

Caroline put out her hand, and gave his a squeeze. Barbara said: "You were quite right about him, after all, Daddy."

"Well, it looks like it," he answered. "But when somebody else has been hurt you're not going to help them get over it by saying, 'I told you so.' Poor little B has been hurt, and that's all we've got to put right at present."

"There's the show coming on," said Bunting. "That'll interest her. And Jimmy will take care not to badger her at rehearsals. He's a kind-hearted chap, and he'll understand."

"He's a pompous conceited little ass," said Barbara, in whom the remembrance of certain passages of the afternoon still rankled. "But perhaps he'll make her laugh, which will be something."

"He can be very funny when he likes," said Bunting guilelessly.

"Not half so funny as when he doesn't like," returned Barbara. "You know, Daddy, I think B will get over it pretty soon, if we leave her alone. I believe she'd begun to like him not so much."

"You observed that, did you?" said her father. "Well, if it is so it will make it all the easier for her."

Beatrix had gone to bed when they got in. Miss Waterhouse said that she had taken it better than she had expected. She had been relieved at getting away from Surley, and the necessity to play a part, had cried a little in the car going home, but not as if she were likely to break down, and had said she didn't want to talk about it. But Caroline might go to her when she came in.

"Give her my love and a kiss," said Grafton, "and come down and talk to me afterwards. It's early yet."