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somehow convinced him to sport the very latest fashion of a slight “whip” above his forehead. His hair was the perfect texture, he said; his face had just the right shape to pull it off without a hint of dandyism; and so when the curate left the shop, he had a new wave in his hair, and could hardly suppress a slight feeling of glee when two young ladies sent admiring glances in his direction as he returned to the family carriage.
    With this little boost to his confidence, and a very good shave, he packed his clothing (particularly his whitest neckcloths—this was, after all, Mornay he was to see), kissed his mother goodbye, and set off on his doomed journey. Oddly enough, he felt almost optimistic. At first. But during the two-and-a-half hours of the drive, he had time to consider his past sins—the very reasons Mornay would never present the living to him. It had been years now since his humiliation and defeat at that man’s hands; years since he had fallen in love with a woman, only to have her choose Mornay instead of him. He bore no ill-will toward her; indeed, his feeling at the present time for Miss Ariana Forsythe—er, Mrs. Mornay—was nought but benevolent. He wished her every happiness.
    But he and Mr. Mornay had never seen eye to eye, and now, all this time later, the man had resurfaced in his affairs! Why had it happened this way? He’d thought the Mornays were behind him forever. Not that he’d done anything more dishonourable than giving way to a few weak impulses, stealing a kiss from Ariana when he ought not to have. It was a sin he’d repented of, received forgiveness from God for, and put decidedly in his past. But the name “Mornay” now brought it all back again, rushing across his mind like a soldier reliving some great battle. Only this was a battle of the heart—and one he’d lost.
    He understood Ariana Mornay enough to know that he had nothing to fear at her hands; she would receive him kindly, whether she wished for him to have the living or not; but her husband? Why had he not written to the Colonel, telling of his abhorrence for Mr. O’Brien? Or, why had he not written directly, telling him privately what he really thought, and that he oughtn’t to waste his time calling upon them at Aspindon? It would have saved him this pointless trip.
    When the chaise stopped at an inn to pick up more passengers, O’Brien hired a fast-riding messenger and sent an urgent letter to Mr. Mornay. If he was to be turned away at the door, let him say so now, before he arrived. He hoped this would give Mr. Mornay the time he needed to send a message back. “Go home, O’Brien,” it would say. “You are not welcome here.” And go home he would, with relief. But that message had not come, and now the coach was well nigh the vicinity of Aspindon House. Mr. O’Brien sighed. He did not relish the next hour.

    Unfortunately, without their knowing it, and just when Beatrice had tried out the name of “Mr. Frederick Frogglethorpe” aloud upon her tongue, the butler was at the door with a guest, and both men heard her pronouncement. Nigel had exited the room just as swiftly as he had run in (at Mrs. Perler’s calling for him) and left the door open. Frederick, just raising his hand to knock, heard the words coming from the room. He stiffened, and grimaced. Why was he the brunt of a joke? He took a breath, and again went to knock—when Beatrice’s voice again rang out: “I think he will bow timidly, with overarching propriety, and will offer you a great deal of flummery.” They all chuckled, and Miss Bluford, nodding fervently, agreed, “Yes, flummery—indeed, indeed! The richest sort! The smoothest going down! Quite the vicar!”
    Now Mr. Frederick’s eyes opened wide in comprehension, which turned to apprehension. They were not making fun of him; they were making fun of the man with him! Mr.