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social intercourse. The General said that he was a nambypamby fellow with a bee in his bonnet. The Vicar said, sadly but with conviction, that the General was living in sin. If it had not been for the arguments of his wife, and the advice of his very tactful bishop, Mr. Chudleigh would never have set foot inside the General's house. He did not recognise divorce. This, not unnaturally, was apt to produce a somewhat strained atmosphere on the rare occasions when, in duty bound, he visited the Grange. He had tried once to bring Sir Arthur to a realisation of his error. The result had not been happy, and it had taken six months to heal the breach. Left to himself, the Vicar would never again have approached Sir Arthur, but he was not left to himself. His bishop came to lunch one day, and was more tactful and persuasive than ever. The Rev. Hilary, who was growing old and rather tired, saw that the situation was too difficult for him to cope with. The bishop apparently recognised divorce and remarriage, and the bishop pointed out that Sir Arthur was not only one of the more influential landowners in the district, but a churchwarden as well. It seemed one could not ostracise rich men who occupied front pews every Sunday, contributed to the church restoration funds, and took leading parts in parochial meetings.
    So he gave way, troubled in his conscience, and at least three times a year he and his wife dined at the Grange. It was certainly a little unfortunate that one of these dinners should occur when Miss de Silva was in the house. It annoyed the General very much to think that the Rev. Hilary (who had the impertinence to condemn his morals) was to be brought face to face with the abominable young woman Geoffrey had had the affrontery to bring down to the Grange. Lola would give the fellow a fine handle; she would give Mrs. Chudleigh something to talk about too, for weeks to come.
    Mrs. Chudleigh was engaged at the moment in shaking hands with Fay, and explaining how she feared they might be a little late on account of their having walked up from the vicarage this lovely evening. She was a thin woman of about fifty, with a weather-beaten complection, and hair of that pepper-and-salt variety that might in her youth have been almost any colour. Kindly people said that she must have been pretty once, but she had not worn well, and did nothing now to improve her appearance. She wore pince-nez, despised face powder and curling-tongs, and had a genius for acquiring frocks made according to the last fashion but one. Her weaksighted eyes had a trick of peering, which gave her an inquisitive air, and she had a voice that had probably, in her girlhood, been a childish treble, and had become, in the process of time, merely sharp.
    Both she and her husband refused cocktails, but the Vicar accepted instead a glass of sherry, remarking to Dinah that he had never learned to like the modern apperitif. His mild gaze travelled to Camilla, who was talking to Francis, and had given vent to her rather empty laugh. He blinked a little, as well he might, for the pink sequins sparkled dazzlingly as the light caught them, and inclined his head a little towards Dinah. "I am afraid I did not catch that lady's name," he said apologetically. "My wife tells me that it is quite a tiresome failing of mine, but I am a little deaf, you know."
    "I think most people mumble introductions," replied Dinah. "That is Mrs. Halliday."
    "Ah, indeed?" The Vicar looked at Camilla with renewed interest. "I knew a Halliday once. A dear fellow; we were at Lincoln together. But I dare say he would be no relation."
    The sound of the grandfather clock in the hall striking the hour penetrated to the drawing-room. The General consulted his wrist-watch, as though to verify it.
    "You see, we were not late after all, Hilary," said Mrs. Chudleigh, with an air of self-congratulation.
    Dinah slipped unobtrusively towards Geoffrey, who was standing moodily behind Mrs. Twining's chair. "If