She had taken off her hat. Her hair was so much sunshot silk. And Paul understood all about the charades at the Gators'. He had extemporised the whole affair, scene by scene. It was the one thing he loved at parties. And one scene had been the deck of a ship in the evening, a piano playing in the background, she in a chair, he, playing the lover, leaning on the bulwark. They had played it rather too well, if anything, though the Gators were not the sort of people, even at Claxted, to mind. And afterwards, Paul remembered, they had been chaffed over it, in a jolly kind of way, and he had been flattered, and they had gone on playing they were lovers, especially going down to supper, on the stairs. It was rather nice of her to remember. He leant a little towards her. "I remember," he said, looking down into her face. "We shall never see you after you go to Mr. Tressor's." "You certainly will," he vowed. "I shall jolly well come. And I say, perhaps you and your father might even come to see me, at Fordham." "Oh," she breathed, "that _would_ be jolly. But it won't be possible, you know, unless----" "Unless what?" She looked up swiftly, and away. A spirit moved in Paul, but then, after all, he was not going to be a parson. He reached out and took her hand. "Unless what?" She laughed. "But perhaps you'll come back and preach occasionally at the Mission Hall," she said. "The workers will miss you, Paul. Mr. Derrick, Albert Vintner and Edith Thornton." Paul gave no sign, or he thought he did not. She studied him. The temptation to probe a little further was irresistible. "Miss Thornton's getting quite High Church," she said. "Her people are rather worried about it." "Well," said Paul, rapidly mastering himself and speaking deliberately now, "I'm inclined to be High Church myself, come to that. The Catholic religion's rather wonderful, Madeline. Father Vassall thought I ought to be a Redemptorist." "What's that?" "A friar. A member of the religious order of the Redemptorists. They preach missions--a sort of Catholic evangelists." "Is Father Vassall a Redemptorist?" "Oh, no. He's a secular priest." She nodded. "Yes, that's it. _He_ isn't a monk or a friar, but he'd like you to be one. I know. I've heard father talk about it." Paul detected the sneer. He was perfectly cool now. More than that, he was getting angry. But he still held her hand, and she noticed nothing. "Edith Thornton," he said, "is rather wonderful." Madeline shifted a little. "Is she?" she questioned. "I can't say I know her very well. She's full of good works, of course. I expect she'd make a splendid wife for a curate. She'd rather like to marry a clergyman, Paul." "Wouldn't you, Madeline?" She smiled slowly. "I think I'd rather marry a--a----" For the life of him he couldn't help it. "An actor, perhaps," he said, "or an author." She flushed. "I don't know," she said in an undertone.