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“An’ if,” sweetly rejoined Miss Townshend, taking the letter, “if your gues’s frien’s—not knowin’ you—didn’t take no notice of what was wrote at the ’ead of the notepaper, I s’pose your gues’s ’ld still get it in the neck.” Mrs. Purdoe Blewitt recoiled, and the Rector emitted a protesting noise. “You know, you’re too particular to live, you are; and p’raps you’ll take this as notice. Servants aren’t no good to you. What you want is ’alf a dozen Archangels—and then you’ld show ’em ’ow to wear their wings.”

Apparently unable to speak, Mrs. Blewitt, crimson with fury, clawed at the air, while the Rector, feeling that something must be done, rose to his feet and cleared his throat.

Ere words came, however, Miss Townshend was out of the room.

The look of her letter was promising.

This had been addressed to ‘Roughbridge,’ but, there being no such place, the Post Office had risen to the occasion and above the mistake.

Five days had gone by since Mrs. Purdoe Blewitt had been so annoyed, and Pardoner and Miss Vulliamy were dining together, ostensibly to discuss arrangements for their alliance, actually because they enjoyed each other’s company.