It was very odd--she had not a shade of a reason for it--but neither had _she_ mentioned that rencontre to her friend. Perhaps they had so many other things to talk about. She could scan him now more narrowly, for his face was turned away from her. The result was satisfactory: when Major Keene stood up on his feet, not even his habitual laziness could disguise the fair proportions and trained vigor of a stalwart man-at-arms; and be it known that Cecil's eye, though not so professional as that of Good Queen Bess, loved to light upon such dearly. "Harry," Mrs. Molyneux observed, "Mr. Fullarton called while I was at the _Lion d'Or_ this morning, and staid half an hour. He is so very anxious to get Cecil to lead the singing in church." "Yes; he has been, so to speak, throwing his hat up ever since he heard you were coming, Miss Tresilyan," was the reply. "I suppose he calculated on your vocal talents; there's the nuisance of having an European reputation, you are always expected to do something for somebody's benefit. I hope you'll indulge him, in charity to us. You have no idea what it has been. Two Sundays ago, for instance, a Mr. Rolleston and his wife volunteered to give us a lead. He didn't look like a racing man; and yet he must have been. I never saw any thing more artistically done. He went off at score, and made the pace so strong that he cut them all down in the first two verses; and then the wife, who had waited very patiently, came and won as she liked--nothing else near her." Cecil thought the illustration rather irreverent, and did not smile. Keene saw this as he turned round. "The turf slang has got into your constitution, I think, since you won that Garrison Cup. It's very wrong of you not to cure yourself, when you know how it annoys Mrs. Molyneux. He is right, though, Miss Tresilyan; it is a case of real distress: our vocal destitution is pitiable; so, if you have any benevolence to spare, do bestow it upon us, and your petitioners will ever pray, etc." Now it so happened that Fanny valued that same cup above all her earthly possessions, as a mark of her husband's prowess. No testimonial ever gave so much satisfaction to a popular rector's wife as that little ugly mug afforded her, albeit it was the very wooden-spoon of racing plate. So she first smiled consolingly at the culprit, who was already contrite, and then looked up at the last speaker with amusement and wonder glittering in her pretty brown eyes. She did not see what interest the subject could have for Keene, who had only darkened the chapel doors once since they came. Mr. Fullarton, indeed, was supposed to have alluded to him several times--his discourses were apt to take a personal and individualizing turn--but he had never had the satisfaction of a "shot in the open" at that stout-hearted sinner.