"Oh, Laura--do remember, dear!--don't ask Alan about those pictures--those frescoes--by young Williams. I can tell you some time--and you might say something to hurt him--poor Alan!" Laura drew herself away. "Why should I say anything to hurt him? What's the mystery?" "I can't tell you now"--Mrs. Fountain looked anxiously towards the hall. "People have been so hard on Alan--_so_ unkind about it! It's been a regular persecution. And you wouldn't understand--wouldn't sympathise----" "I really don't care to know about it, Augustina! And I'm so hungry--famished! Look, there's Mr. Helbeck signing to us. Joy!--that's dinner." * * * * * Laura expected the midday meal with some curiosity. But she saw no signs of austerity. Mr. Helbeck pressed the roast chicken on Father Bowles, took pains that he should enjoy a better bottle of wine than usual, and as to himself ate and drank very moderately indeed, but like anybody else. Laura could only imagine that it was not seemly to outdo your priest. The meal of course was served in the simplest way, and all the waiting was done by Mr. Helbeck, who would allow nobody to help him in the task. The conversation dragged. Laura and her host talked a little about the country and the weather. Father Bowles and Augustina tried to pick up the dropped threads of thirteen years; and Mrs. Fountain was alternately eager for Whinthorpe gossip, or reduced to an abrupt unhappy silence by some memory of the past. Suddenly Father Bowles got up from his chair, ran across the room to the window with his napkin in his hand, and pounced eagerly upon a fly that was buzzing on the pane. Then he carefully opened the window, and flicked the dead thing off the sill. "I beg your pardon," he said humbly to Mrs. Fountain as he returned to his seat. "It was a nasty fly. I can't abide 'em. I always think of Beelzebub, who was the prince of the flies." Laura's mouth twitched with laughter. She promised herself to make a study of Father Bowles. And, indeed, he was a character in his own small way. He was a priest of an old-fashioned type, with no pretensions to knowledge or to manners. Wherever he went he was a meek and accommodating guest, for his recollection went back to days when a priest coming to a private house to say Mass would as likely as not have his meals in the pantry. And he was naturally of a gentle and yielding temper--though rather sly.