"It may be," said Mr Bevan at last, "that those people are very pleasant and all that, and useful in the world and so on, but I confess I like to associate with people who cut their hair, and, not to put too fine a point on it, wash----" "Oh, Leavesley washes," said Miss Morgan, "he's as clean as a new pin. And as for cutting his hair, my!--that's what spoils him in my opinion; why, it's cut to the bone almost, like a convict's. All artists cut their hair now; it's only Polish piano-players and violinists wear their hair long." "Whether they cut their hair 'to the bone' or wear it long is a matter of indifference," said Mr Bevan. "They're all a lot of bounders, and I'd be sorry to see a sister of mine married amongst them--very sorry." Miss Morgan said nothing, the warmth of Mr Bevan on the subject of Leavesley struck her as being somewhat strange; though she said nothing, like the parrot, she thought the more, and began to consider Mr Bevan more attentively and to "turn him over in her mind." Now the fortunate or unfortunate person whom Miss Morgan distinguished by turning them over in her mind, generally gave up their secrets in the process unconsciously, subconsciously, or sometimes even consciously. Those wide-open blue eyes that seemed always gazing into futurity and distance saw many happenings of the present invisible to most folk. Professor Wilson and Hamilton-Cox had wandered away through the garden discussing Oxford and modern thought. Miss Pursehouse, Lambert, and old Miss Jenkins were talking and laughing, and seemingly quite happy and content. Said Miss Morgan, looking round: "Every one's busy, like the children in the Sunday-school story, and we've no one to play with; shall we go for a walk in the village, and I'll show you the church and the pump and the other antiques?" "Certainly, I'll be delighted," said Charles, rising. "Then com'long," said Miss Morgan, "Pamela, I'm taking Mr Bevan to show him the village and the creatures that there abound. If we're not back by six, send a search-party." Rookhurst is, perhaps, one of the prettiest and most quaint of English villages, and the proudest. If communities receive attention from the Recording Angel, amidst Rookhurst's sins written in that tremendous book will be found this entry, "It calls itself a town."