Sunday in the Mallison _menage_ was not at the best of times a cheerful occasion, though hitherto Teresa's society had made it bearable; under the new conditions it became a penance difficult to endure. The one o'clock dinner was invariably the same. Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, a pie made of the fruit in season, flanked by custard in glasses; biscuits and cheese, and a sketchy dessert. Mrs Mallison invariably discussed the morning's sermon. Teresa invariably disagreed, and the Major preserved a dejected silence. To Peignton's supersensitive sight it had appeared sometimes as if each daughter had assumed a startling likeness to a separate parent. Mary had her father's features, her father's shrinking air. Teresa--why had he never noticed it before?--Teresa was a youthful replica of her mother. Given another twenty years she would develop into the same stout, bustling matron. His flesh crept at the thought of sitting opposite to her in the Major's place. In the afternoon Teresa suggested reading in the garden as an alternative to the usual walk; she also announced that Mr Hunter and his sister were "coming in" to tea, an innovation in the day's programme for which Peignton was devoutly thankful. He had met the young doctor and his sister, and knew them to be lively, talkative young people, eminently capable of rolling the conversation ball. Their presence would prevent personalities, and keep the talk away from dreaded topics. Never in his life had he accorded a more cordial welcome to comparative strangers. The table was set beneath a tree in the garden, and Teresa in her white dress made an attractive figure against the green of the background. Her hair was carefully dressed, a touch of blue at the throat intensified the blue of her eyes; there was in her manner that touch of self-consciousness and artificiality which to a discerning eye bespoke the presence of an admiring male. Roused to a momentary interest, Peignton realised that the admirer was not himself in this instance, but Hunter, the young doctor. He hovered about the table with eager looks; he discovered what Teresa needed, as soon as she found it out for herself, and darted forward to help. When she moved, his eyes followed her; when she spoke, he was all ears; and once, turning from the tea table, the young fellow knitted his brows, and stared fixedly into Peignton's face.--"What does she see in _You_?"--said that look as plainly as words could speak, and Dane, knowing himself to look weary and absent, felt an answering sympathy.