The fact that Lady Millicent Vavasour, “civil” though she invariably was, considered him in the light of an inferior many times removed, was patent as the light of Gospel truth to the Rector of Switcham. That he did not love the lady patroness of the living he held the better for the discovery is simply adducing a proof, if proof were needed, that he was human. _L’amour ne se commande pas_, says the proverb; and the best of men--this excellent clerical gentleman included--can do no more than refrain from hating the individual who wounds their _self_-love by treating them with hauteur and condescension. As will readily be believed, the female inhabitants of Switcham and its neighbourhood very soon after Mr. Wallingford’s installation commenced their sex’s normal practice, namely, that of finding a wife for a bachelor incumbent. Though the rectory of Switcham was very far removed from being one of the plums of church patronage, yet there were contingent advantages attached to it, to say nothing of the living being held, as in the present instance, by a tolerably good-looking young man a year or two under thirty, which caused more than one _demoiselle à marier_ to gaze with eyes of interest on the mild-looking clergyman in his single-breasted waistcoat and neatly-trimmed whiskers, the while the said damsel pictured to herself the lonely man eating his solitary steak; or (climax of melancholy conjuration!) brewing--in the pretty drawing-room of the parsonage--his bachelor tea! Some years elapsed (for, as the poet hath it, “hope springs responsive in the _female_ breast”) before the spinsterhood of Mr. Wallingford’s flock came to the unpleasing conclusion that the young rector was the _rara avis_ among birds of his feather, a non-marrying clergyman. Even after the good man’s heart had spoken, for speak it did, when its owner had been some five years at Switcham, and when Rhoda Vavasour, emancipated from governess control, was of an age to be introduced to the guests who, few and far between, were invited to partake of Lady Millicent’s grudgingly dispensed hospitality--even, as I was about to say, after George Wallingford’s seemingly obdurate heart had melted under the influence of Miss Vavasour’s shy smile and pale delicate prettiness,--the little world in which he lived knew nothing of his heart’s weakness. As how indeed should it? To no one--no not even to the friend that had ever stuck closer to him than a brother, to the school and college fellow whom hitherto he had trusted with every secret of his life, not even to the congenial spirit dwelling like himself in a pure bachelor’s body, not to the silent, caustic, woman-despising James Truscott, fellow of his college, and the most ungainly in appearance of created men, did George Wallingford confess the wondrous truth that he was in love with that bright particular star, Miss Rhoda Vavasour.