Though she had scarcely glanced at him in the morning, she had
decided that the tall, erect figure and the enormous mustache, with its
_crocs a la mousquetaire_, could only belong to Fanny's Household Word.
It was very odd--she had not a shade of a reason for it--but neither had
_she_ mentioned that rencontre to her friend. Perhaps they had so many
other things to talk about. She could scan him now more narrowly, for
his face was turned away from her. The result was satisfactory: when
Major Keene stood up on his feet, not even his habitual laziness could
disguise the fair proportions and trained vigor of a stalwart
man-at-arms; and be it known that Cecil's eye, though not so
professional as that of Good Queen Bess, loved to light upon such
dearly.

"Harry," Mrs. Molyneux observed, "Mr. Fullarton called while I was at
the _Lion d'Or_ this morning, and staid half an hour. He is so very
anxious to get Cecil to lead the singing in church."

"Yes; he has been, so to speak, throwing his hat up ever since he heard
you were coming, Miss Tresilyan," was the reply. "I suppose he
calculated on your vocal talents; there's the nuisance of having an
European reputation, you are always expected to do something for
somebody's benefit. I hope you'll indulge him, in charity to us. You
have no idea what it has been. Two Sundays ago, for instance, a Mr.
Rolleston and his wife volunteered to give us a lead. He didn't look
like a racing man; and yet he must have been. I never saw any thing more
artistically done. He went off at score, and made the pace so strong
that he cut them all down in the first two verses; and then the wife,
who had waited very patiently, came and won as she liked--nothing else
near her."

Cecil thought the illustration rather irreverent, and did not smile.
Keene saw this as he turned round.

"The turf slang has got into your constitution, I think, since you won
that Garrison Cup. It's very wrong of you not to cure yourself, when you
know how it annoys Mrs. Molyneux. He is right, though, Miss Tresilyan;
it is a case of real distress: our vocal destitution is pitiable; so, if
you have any benevolence to spare, do bestow it upon us, and your
petitioners will ever pray, etc."

Now it so happened that Fanny valued that same cup above all her
earthly possessions, as a mark of her husband's prowess. No testimonial
ever gave so much satisfaction to a popular rector's wife as that little
ugly mug afforded her, albeit it