"My husband doesn’t smoke," she said severely as we crossed the hall; "he doesn’t think it becoming in a clergyman, and I must say I agree with him. But then _he_ is rector of the parish, and one of those—too few, alas! in these lax days—who acts up to his convictions.... Now, about this Mrs. Cushion...." Mrs. Robinson by this time was seated beside me on the vicar’s chesterfield. "I feel quite anxious. What can be her reason for masquerading as a married woman here? Even if she _had_ married since she left her old home, it’s most unlikely that her name would still be Cushion, and it’s impossible that she should have grown-up sons. Have you seen them?" "They are both abroad," I answered, "and isn’t Cushion quite a common name in Gloucestershire?" "Not at all; it’s a very _un_common name, that’s why I remember it so distinctly—and to think she always passed for a most respectable woman!" "So she is," I interrupted with some heat. "A most kind and admirable woman in every possible way. Every one here has the greatest respect for her. She’s probably a cousin of your one—who doubtless was quite excellent also. Would you care to go out and look at the dahlias? The vicar has quite a show." Never did I spend a more trying half-hour than the one that followed. Mrs. Robinson kept returning to the subject of Mrs. Cushion with a persistency worthy of a better cause; and I, for no reason that I could formulate, kept heading her off and trying to turn her thoughts down other paths. It was Mrs. Cushion’s sons that seemed to annoy her most, and I had the queer, wholly illogical feeling that Mrs. Robinson would, unless prevented, snatch them away from Mrs. Cushion, and that it was up to me to prevent anything of the kind. So nervous did I feel that I accompanied the party to see the church and the village, and only breathed freely again when Mr. Vernon’s car had borne Mr. and Mrs. Robinson away in a direction wholly opposite to Snig’s. As his guests vanished over the bridge in the direction of Marlehouse, the vicar sighed deeply. "Now, why," he demanded, "should Vernon have brought those people to me? I suppose he was so bored himself he had to do something. She’s his cousin, I believe, and what a trying lady!" "Did you ’ave a nice party, miss?" asked Mrs. Cushion an hour or so later, as she brought in my tea. "Curiously enough, there was a clergyman and his wife from your old home, Mrs. Cushion. I wonder if you remember them? A Mr. and Mrs. Robinson." "I suppose you didn’t happen to name me, miss?" Mrs. Cushion asked—I thought a trifle nervously. "Well, I didn’t, but the vicar did." "Yes, miss, and did Mrs. Robinson seem to remember me?" "She remembered some one of your name, Mrs. Cushion, but it couldn’t have been you—perhaps you have relations in her parish?" "May I make so bold, miss, as to ask exactly what she did say?" "That it was a _Miss_ Cushion she knew, who left soon after her husband got the living."