The merriment at the luncheon table had revived Emily’s good spirits. She had a light-hearted remembrance of the failure of her sauce. Mirabel saw her smiling to herself. “May I ask what amuses you?” he said. “I was thinking of the debt of gratitude that we owe to Mr. Wyvil,” she replied. “If he had not persuaded you to return to Monksmoor, we should never have seen the famous Mr. Mirabel with a frying pan in his hand, and never have tasted the only good dish at our luncheon.” Mirabel tried vainly to adopt his companion’s easy tone. Now that he was alone with her, the doubts that Francine had aroused shook the prudent resolution at which he had arrived in the garden. He ran the risk, and told Emily plainly why he had returned to Mr. Wyvil’s house. “Although I am sensible of our host’s kindness,” he answered, “I should have gone back to my parsonage--but for You.” She declined to understand him seriously. “Then the affairs of your parish are neglected--and I am to blame!” she said. “Am I the first man who has neglected his duties for your sake?” he asked. “I wonder whether the masters at school had the heart to report you when you neglected your lessons?” She thought of Alban--and betrayed herself by a heightened color. The moment after, she changed the subject. Mirabel could no longer resist the conclusion that Francine had told him the truth. “When do you leave us,” she inquired. “To-morrow is Saturday--I must go back as usual.” “And how will your deserted parish receive you?” He made a desperate effort to be as amusing as usual.