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provide.”
    â€œOpportunites,” said Mr. Mornay, “such as dying at the barrel of a rifle?”
    Beatrice paused and pouted at him. “That was not my meaning, as you well know, sir!” But the humour was not entirely lost upon her and she ended upon a little smile. “I grant it is a safer profession; but many a man has been made by his military service, while many a parson must scrounge and take on more parishes than he can handle, merely to get by.”
    â€œIt is a grave injustice,” said Ariana, “but no reason to assume our cleric must be morose.”
    Beatrice, nonplussed, said, “I thought you desired an ogre—someone we could laugh at.”
    â€œWhat
do
we know of this man, truly?” asked Mrs. Forsythe. “Is he coming by recommendation? I am certain Mr. Timmons could advise you where to find a good man, sir, (this to Mr. Mornay) if you are in need of help in that regard.”
    Mr. Mornay spoke up. “He comes highly recommended. He would not be coming at all, however, I assure you, except that the letter recommending him was delayed. Lost in the mail, no doubt, so that I only received it yesterday. But he is wasting his time.”
    Ariana was surprised. “Have you presented the living to someone else?”
    Her husband met her eyes. “Without your knowing of it? No.”
    â€œBut you said he is wasting his time. And that he would not be coming if you had notice. What are we to make of that?” she asked, curious at his mysterious air.
    â€œWhen the man arrives, you will understand me.”
    â€œWe do need a vicar at Glendover,” she reminded him. “The people all feel the absence of poor Mr. Applegate.”
    â€œThe people are managing to get themselves to Warwickdon. ’Tis but two miles, and their spiritual needs are being met thus. I should like to fill the position with a man of
my
choosing, if you must know.”
    â€œBut of course you will choose the man. Only you can, my darling.” Her face registered a momentary discomfort as she recalled that they were not alone—it was vexing to feel they must address each other formally in the presence of guests. Calling Phillip “my darling,” was her habit—not easy to alter on demand. “But I do think you must give this man—whatever you know of him—a fair trial of your scrutiny; for the Colonel’s sake, if not his own.”
    â€œDo you have aught against the Colonel?” asked Mrs. Forsythe. “For what reason are you so decided in your opinion against the man he recommends?”
    â€œIt has nothing to do with the Colonel,” he answered.
    â€œWhat is the curate’s name?” asked Beatrice.
    â€œYes, give us the name, Phillip!” added Mrs. Royleforst.
    â€œYes, the name!” echoed her minion, nodding her skinny head. She liked to be included in as much of genteel society as possible.
    â€œPerhaps we can conjecture better upon his character if we hear his name.” Ariana looked at her husband. They all looked at him.
    â€œAriana, do you not know it?” asked her mama, a little surprised.
    â€œActually, no, Mr. Mornay has not told me.” She looked back at her husband. “You evidently know the man, or something of him. Is this not so?”
    â€œI could never forget it, I assure you. But since he is expected any minute, I think I shall leave it to him to make himself known to you. ”
    Beatrice said, “You can never forget it? It must be singular, somehow!”
    â€œI should say!” cried Mrs. Royleforst. “If you indeed know this fellow, Phillip, ought you not to tell us what you know? Should we be on our guard? Something is afoot in this business, I can smell it.”
    He merely gave that maddening half-smile, so Ariana said, “Never mind, let us devise our own little name for the ogre, then.” She paused and fell to thinking, and then looked up with a