Roland ate his luncheon in a brown study. His landlady's gossip had told him what he wanted to know. The girl by whose side he had sat and walked yesterday morning--the girl who had so strangely attracted him in the parish church, was the daughter of his late visitor--and to-night he was to dine at the Rectory. Things couldn't have turned out better. Yet all this was in the highest degree absurd. What could it matter to him who she was--or indeed if he never saw her again! But that morning on the beach! Bosh! He had not fallen in love with her--not he. He knew better than that. Yet Roland Dorrien, gloomy of temperament and entertaining no spark of affection for any living soul, was obliged to admit to himself that he had thought and was still thinking a good deal about that oval-faced girl with the dark expressive eyes. And here a new idea struck him. That assumed name had been all very well up to a certain point, but now that he had accepted the rector's invitation it had an ugly look of entering a man's family circle under false colours. He wished now he had never adopted it, but then his plan of staying in Wandsborough _incog_, would have fallen through, and that he did not wish at all. Well, he would let it alone for the present. Perhaps during the evening he would find an opportunity of explaining matters to his host: at any rate to-morrow he would run up to Town for a day or two, and return to Cranston in ordinary and conventional style. That would put matters right. CHAPTER SEVEN. "I TOLD YOU WE SHOULD MEET AGAIN." When Roland Dorrien was marshalled into the Rectory drawing-room, he found himself, somewhat to his surprise, its sole occupant. A glance around told him that it was a pleasant room to be in. The elegant furniture, the pictures on the walls, the innumerable knick-knacks bestowed about, were all in the most perfect taste. There was that about the room which made it unmistakably clear that its presiding goddesses were refined and well-bred women. It was a bright room withal, as well as a tasteful one. Wide French windows opened upon the garden, and a strong aroma of roses both from without and within hung heavily upon the air. Suddenly Olive came in. With a start of astonishment she stopped short. "You!" she exclaimed. "My fortunate self," he replied, advancing to meet her. "I told you we should be sure to meet again, but I little thought how soon." "To think of it being you," she went on, her face beaming with merriment over the fun of the situation, which, the first surprise past, she began thoroughly to enjoy. "Margaret told us father had asked someone to dinner, and we thought it was some clerical friend of his." "I am afraid you must get over the situation, Miss Olive, and put up with only me." "In that case, seeing that you have the advantage of me, and that there's no one here to introduce us _en regle_--you might--er--"