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“You’re not going?” protested Gail, and was startled to find that the Reverend Smith Boyd’s eyes were no longer blue. They were cold.

“I’m afraid that I must,” he answered her in the conventional apologetic tone, which was not at all like his singing voice. It sounded rather inflexible, and as if it might not blend very well. “I trust that I shall have the pleasure of meeting you again, Mr. Clemmens,” and he shook hands with the brisk young man in a most dignified fashion. He bowed his frigid adieus to the ladies, and marched into the hall for his hat.

“Rector?” guessed Mr. Clemmens, when the outer door had closed.

“Of Market Square Church,” proudly asserted Aunt Grace. “He is a wonderfully gifted young man. The rectory is right next door.”

“Oh yes,” responded Mr. Clemmens perfunctorily, and he turned slowly to Gail. “Fine looking chap, isn’t he?”

Gail bridled a trifle. She knew that trick of jealous interrogation quite well. Howard was trying to surprise her into some facial expression which would betray her attitude toward the Reverend Smith Boyd.