ith such an
air of importance.

"The Vicar has asked me to decorate the chancel for Easter."

"Don't you do it! Lots of trouble, and nobody pleased. Let someone
else take that job."

"Oh, but"--Teresa looked shocked--"I want to! It's an honour. I've
only done the finials before. But it needs lots of flowers. I wondered
if..."

"I'll bet you did! They always do." Bernard laughed good-naturedly.
"All right, Miss Teresa; you shall have them. Someone has them every
year, and I'd sooner give them to you than most. Tell Dawes what you
want, and I'll see that he remembers. And if you want him to help--"

"Oh, thanks!" Teresa's cheeks showed a deeper colour. "I have some
helpers. Mr Peignton has promised."

"That's right, Peignton! Make yourself useful." Bernard's smile was so
significant, that Teresa made haste to give the conversation a turn.

"The Martin Beverleys have come home."

"They have, have they? That's the author fellow who married the
heiress, who was not an heiress, because she gave it all up to marry
him. Chucked away,--how much was it? Fifty thousand a year?"

"Thirty!"

"Ah well, thirty's good enough! He didn't seem to me, the few times
I've met him, exactly cheap at the price. Good-looking enough in a
fashion, and plays a fair game, but a stiff, reserved kind of beggar.
Takes himself too seriously for my taste. They tell me he writes good
books."

Teresa waxed eloquent in favour of the local celebrity.

"Oh, beautiful! He is one of the best authors. The last one was the
best of all. It's run through several editions. You ought to read it,
Mr Raynor."

"Can't stick novels!" declared Bernard, who was never known to read a
line beyond the morning papers. "Can't understand how anyone can when
they've passed the cub stage. And as to writing them--Good Lord! Fancy
that old solemn sides Beverley writing an impassioned love scene! Beats
me how he manages to do it."

"It wouldn't, if you knew Mrs Beverley!" Teresa said sagely. Her blue
eyes brightened, she drew a long, eloquent breath. "She is--adorable!"

The men laughed. Cassandra looked up with a dawning of interest.

"She was Grizel Dundas, niece of that terrible old woman. I've heard of
her often, but we never met. I've met Mr Beverley and his sister, that
handsome girl who went to India: they have been here to several garden
parties. He is certainly rather stiff, but one feels from his books
that he must b