The morning succeeding the motor’s first trip proved depressingly wet; thick mists of cold spring rain shrouded the outlook from the Manor, beat down upon the pleasure ground, and made pools in the hollows of the drive. Miss Parrett, who was, as the servants expressed it, “dodging” in and out of the sitting-room, issuing commands and then withdrawing them, fastened upon the chauffeur the moment he came for orders. No, the car would not be required, and he could go some errands into the village. “Mind you don’t go loitering and gossiping,” she added. “I know your sort, chattering with the maids. Remember that your time belongs to me;” and she pointed a stumpy forefinger at her knitted jacket. “I’ve a note for Miss Morven at the Rectory, and another for Ivy House, and I want some things at Topham’s shop. I’ll give you a list. You can go into the schoolroom and wait.” Calm with excessive rage Wynyard entered the schoolroom, where he found Miss Susan with a handkerchief tied over her head, and an apron over her dress, unpacking dusty china from a battered case. “Such a day!” she exclaimed cheerfully; “and they say it’s going to last--so we shall be very busy, and make use of you.” “All right, miss,” he assented shortly; the accusation of “chattering with maids” still left its sting. “We are going to get up the cases of old books and china, and unpack them here. The carpenter is putting shelves in the library; but he is such a lazy fellow, I don’t expect he will come out in this weather.” “There you are as usual, Susan, talking and idling people,” said her sister, entering with two notes and a list; and in another moment Wynyard had been dispatched. First of all he went to the Rectory, and here the door was opened by Mr. Morven himself, attended by Mackenzie, who immediately stiffened from head to tail, and growled round the chauffeur’s legs, evidently recognising in him the ally of his mortal foe. Mr. Morven was a squarely built elderly man with a grey beard, a benevolent expression, and the eyes of the dreamer. As he took the note he glanced at the messenger, and his eyes dilated with the intentness of a surprised stare. Wynyard’s type was not common in the parish; somehow Mrs. Hogben’s lodger did not correspond with his surroundings. “I see this is for my daughter,” he said, and beckoning to a parlour-maid he handed it to her. “Just come into my study, will you, till the answer is written,” leading the way across a wide hall panelled in oak. Through an open door Wynyard caught a glimpse of the drawing-room, and was conscious of a faded carpet, fresh chintz, books, old china, a glowing fire, and a fragrant atmosphere. The general impression of the Rectory, with its oaken staircase, family portraits, and bowls of potpourri, was delightful but fleeting; it seemed a peaceful, flower-scented old house, of spotless neatness.