The minister sat silent and inscrutable in his pulpit, rather like a death’s-head, while the congregation filed out. When the last lingerers had unwillingly departed, craning their necks to stare at the still seated Fanny, he rose, stalked in his hooked fashion down the little country chapel and fastened the door. Then he returned and sat down by the silent young woman. “This is most unfortunate, most unfortunate!” he moaned. “I am so sorry, I am so sorry, indeed, indeed, ah, indeed!” he sighed himself to a close. “It’s a sudden surprise, that’s one thing,” said Fanny brightly. “Yes—yes—indeed. Yes, a surprise, yes. I don’t know the woman, I don’t know her.” “I know her,” said Fanny. “She’s a bad one.” “Well! Well!” said the minister. “I don’t know her. I don’t understand. I don’t understand at all. But it is to be regretted, it is very much to be regretted. I am very sorry.” Fanny was watching the vestry door. The gallery stairs communicated with the vestry, not with the body of the chapel. She knew the choir members had been peeping for information. At last Harry came—rather sheepishly—with his hat in his hand. “Well!” said Fanny, rising to her feet. “We’ve had a bit of an extra,” said Harry. “I should think so,” said Fanny. “A most unfortunate circumstance—a most _unfortunate_ circumstance. Do you understand it, Harry? I don’t understand it at all.” “Ah, I understand it. The daughter’s goin’ to have a childt, an’ ’er lays it on to me.” “And has she no occasion to?” asked Fanny, rather censorious. “It’s no more mine than it is some other chap’s,” said Harry, looking aside. There was a moment of pause. “Which girl is it?” asked Fanny. “Annie—the young one—” There followed another silence. “I don’t think I know them, do I?” asked the minister. “I shouldn’t think so. Their name’s Nixon—mother married old Bob for her second husband. She’s a tanger—’s driven the gel to what she is. They live in Manners Road.” “Why, what’s amiss with the girl?” asked Fanny sharply. “She was all right when I knew her.” “Ay—she’s all right. But she’s always in an’ out o’ th’ pubs, wi’ th’ fellows,” said Harry. “A nice thing!” said Fanny. Harry glanced towards the door. He wanted to get out. “Most distressing, indeed!” The minister slowly shook his head. “What about tonight, Mr. Enderby?” asked Harry, in rather a small voice. “Shall you want me?” Mr. Enderby looked up painedly, and put his hand to his brow. He studied Harry for some time, vacantly. There was the faintest sort of a resemblance between the two men. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I think. I think we must take no notice, and cause as little remark as possible.” Fanny hesitated. Then she said to Harry. “But _will_ you come?” He looked at her. “Ay, I s’ll come,” he said. Then he turned to Mr. Enderby. “Well, good-afternoon, Mr. Enderby,” he said.