tactful, "I will
see what the rest of our party are doing."

"Oh, no," said the Vicar; "please don't let me drive you away. As a
matter of fact, since there are so many here I won't stay myself. But
I wonder," he addressed Mrs. Brock, "as I am here, if I might use your
telephone for a moment?"

"Of course," said she.

"Thank you so much," he replied; "yes, I know where it is," and with
a genial and courtly salutation he moved off in the direction of the
house.

"Such a true neighbour!" said Mrs. Brock. "Ah! and here is another,"
she went on. And along the same path, where the Michaelmas daisies
were thickest, I saw a massive woman in white, like a ship in full
sail, bearing down upon us, defending her head from the gentle
September sun with a red parasol. "This," Mrs. Brock hurriedly
informed me, "is Lady Cranstone, who lives in the house with the green
shutters at the end of the village. Such a dear person! She's always
in and out. The widow of the famous scientist, you know."

I didn't know; but what does it matter?

By this time the dear person was within hailing distance, but she
flew no signals of cordiality; her demeanour rather was austere
and arrogant. Mrs. Brock hurried towards her to assist her to her
moorings, and I was duly presented.

"I didn't intend to come in again to-day," said Lady Cranstone,
whose features still successfully failed to give to the stranger any
indication of the benignity that, it was suggested, irradiated her
being.

"But you are always so welcome," said Mrs. Brock. "Lady Cranstone,"
she continued to me, "is kindness itself. She makes all the difference
between loneliness and--and content."

Lady Cranstone picked a rose and pinned it in her monumental bosom. "I
don't know that I had anything in particular to say," she remarked.
"I chanced to be passing and I merely looked in; but since I am here
perhaps you would allow me to use your telephone--"

Mrs. Brock beamed her delighted acquiescence and the frigate sailed
on. "You've no idea," said Mrs. Brock, "what a friendly crowd there is
in these parts. I don't know how it is, but this little place of
mine, modest though it is, and unassuming and unclever as I am, is
positively the very centre of the district. It's like a club-house.
How strange life is! What curious byways there are in human sympathy!"

This being the kind of remark that is best replied to with an
inarticulate murmur, I provided an inarticulate murmur; and