“You’re a newcomer, I believe?” said the Rector, preceding him into a room lined with books from floor to ceiling, and seating himself at a writing-table. “Miss Parrett’s chauffeur?” and he smiled to himself at some reminiscence. “I see they are making use of you. Church of England?” “Yes, sir.” “If you have any sort of voice--tenor, baritone, or bass--we shall be glad to have you in the choir; our tenor is getting on; he must be close on seventy.” “I’m afraid I’m not much good, sir.” “Well, if you don’t sing, you look like a cricketer, eh? I must get something out of you, you know;” and he laughed pleasantly. “Oh yes, I can play cricket all right.” “If you can bowl a bit, with Miss Parrett’s leave, I’ll put you into the village club; we rather fancy ourselves, and a young man of your stamp will be an acquisition.” At this moment Aurea entered, carrying an enormous cardboard box. “Good-morning,” she said. “I see aunt sent you for the lampshade, and here it is.” “What a size!” exclaimed her father. “Why, you must have robbed your best hat! I declare it’s not fair to a man to ask him to be seen with such a thing going through the village.” “Not half so bad as seeing people go down the street with a black bottle in either hand!” retorted his daughter. “I don’t mind, sir,” said Wynyard, taking up the box as he spoke. “Please tell Aunt Bella I will be after you in two or three minutes,” said Aurea; then to her father, “She wants to unpack grandpapa’s books at last!” “You mean that she wants you to unpack the books,” corrected Mr. Morven; “you might steal a few for me, eh? I suppose you will be away all day?” and he looked at her rather wistfully. “No, no, dear, I’ll be back soon after tea.” To Owen: “Straight on, it’s an easy door.” As Wynyard turned in the hall and backed out, box in hand, he had a vision of pretty Miss Aurea perched on the arm of his chair, with her arm round her father’s neck. Lucky old beggar! His next errand was to the shop--Topham’s--and as he lingered irresolutely in the rain, staring up and down the street, he was overtaken by a brisk figure in an aquascutum and motor cap. “I see you are searching for our emporium,” she began, “and I’ll show it to you--in fact, I’m going in myself to get some brass-headed carpet nails.” The shop stood sideways to the street, as if anxious for concealment, and was the most astonishing place of its kind that Wynyard had ever entered. A stall in an Indian bazaar was tame and tidy in comparison. The house was old and low, the shop of narrow dimensions; it widened out as it ran back, and lost itself in a sort of tumbledown greenhouse. The smell was extraordinary, so varied, penetrating, and indescribable--and small wonder, he said to himself, when he had inspected the stock!