‘He may have given me a trifle at odd times as some recompensation for my trouble in opening the door for him, sir. I don’t wish to deceive you; and if I’d thought for a moment there was any harm, I’d have cut my fingers off sooner than open the churchdoor for him. But I made certain as you knew, sir, more particularly as I’d seen Miss Davoren go into the church more than once when Mr. Vandeleur was there.’ ‘Of course,’ said the Rector, without flinching, ‘she had her choir work to attend to. Well, John, there’s no use in being angry about a mistake; only remember the church is not a place for the amusement of amateur musicians. Good-afternoon.’ The family, who had looked on in unspeakable awe during this brief dialogue, now began to breathe freely again, and a kettle, which had been sputtering destruction over Mrs. Bopolt’s bright fender unregarded, was now snatched off the top bar by that careful matron, who had not dared to move hand or foot in the presence of an offended Rector. Stephen Davoren walked slowly homeward, a little more sick at heart than when he began his voyage of discovery. Other people had known the seducer; other people had seen his daughter go into the church to meet her tempter, polluting that sacred place by the conflict of an earthly passion. Other people had guessed something of the dreadful truth, perhaps. He only had been blind. The thought of this, that his little world might be in the secret of his sad story, helped to break his heart. If it had not been broken by the mere fact of his daughter’s ruin, it would have been crushed by the weight of his own shame. He could not look the world in the face any more. He tried to do his duty manfully, preached the old sound homely sermons; but when he spoke of sin and sorrow, he seemed to speak of his lost daughter. He went among his poor, but the thought of Janet set his wits wandering in the midst of his simple talk, and he would make little feeble speeches, and repeat himself helplessly, hardly knowing what he said. His parishioners perceived the change, and told each other that the Rector was breaking fast; it was a pity Miss Davoren was away: ‘She’d have cheered him up a bit, poor old gentleman.’ Lucius came home from Winchester later in the year—his school course ended, and the winner of a scholarship which would help him at the university—came home to hear the story of his sister’s flight, his Janet, the sister whose genius and beauty had been his highest pride. He took the news of this calamity more quietly than his father and mother had dared to hope; insisted upon hearing every detail of the event, but said little. ‘You made inquiries about this man, this Mr. Vandeleur, of course, father?’ he said.