"Quite so, 'Mary.' Mary married some time before her father's death, and is settled in London, I think. My wife would know her whereabouts better than I, she is friendly with a resident who has some fitful correspondence with Mrs. Bailey." "'Mrs. Bailey' is the eldest girl's married name?" "Well, it used to be," replied the clergyman, with another of his smiles. "But I was wrong--I should have said 'Mrs. Barchester-Bailey.' She acquired the 'Barchester' after the ceremony; I cannot supply its exegesis. The result of six months in the capital, I suppose, though it is not everybody who can make such a great name in London in six months." "Much may be done in six months; his parents gave Keats to the world in seven," said Conrad. "I am infinitely grateful to you for your kindness." He rose. "If Mrs. Irquetson should mention Mrs. Barchester-Bailey's address to you, and you would have the additional goodness to let me know it----" "I will drop you a line to-night--or to-morrow at the latest," declared the vicar; and he pencilled the direction on the card. "Good-bye," said Conrad. "I shall always be your debtor for more than the address, sir." "Good-bye," said the vicar, extending his hand; and 'good-bye' as he pronounced it was a benediction. Conrad had been so much impressed--so uplifted by the cleric's manner--that, instead of swinging homeward in high feather at the end of his difficulties, he proceeded slowly, in serious meditation. It was not until the following afternoon when he learnt that Mrs. Barchester-Bailey's residence was Beau Séjour, Hyperion Terrace, Upper Tooting, that interest in his project was again keen. Then there was a little throb in his pulses; a little tremor stole from the note; he had annihilated the obstacles of five-and twenty years--it excited him to realise that he stood so close to her who had been Mary Page. The "Barchester," however, disturbed him somewhat. A woman who reverenced apocryphal hyphens promised less companionship than he had pictured ... Perhaps the snobbishness was her husband's. Tooting? He had a dim recollection of driving through it once, on his way somewhere. Was it to the Derby? Well, he supposed the correct course would be to write to her and hint at his return to town. He wondered whether the signature would waken memories in her if she perpended it. Unless it did, the letter was likely to prove a failure--he could not indite a very stimulating epistle to a married woman of whom he knew nothing. Yet to call on her without writing--? No, he must stand, or fall, by the signature. That would say everything, if it said anything at all ... How stupid, in the circumstances, "Dear Madam" sounded! And what a stumbling-block it looked!