But not one of these distressing emotions was visible on the Canon’s face during dinner. He had never needed his self-control more. Perhaps he showed his strength no less admirably than he could have done if, according to his ardent wish, he had been in happier days a great minister of state. The party consisted of eight, which he thought precisely the right number. It was neither so large that the conversation ceased to be general nor so small as to give a good talker an insufficient audience. Mrs. Fitzherbert noticed with admiration that he had never seemed in better spirits, and took a vow that whatever happened she would certainly remain friendly with him. He was invaluable at a dinner-party. It was only from an occasional look of weariness, quickly driven away, from a metallic, unusual ring in his laughter, that she suspected how great was his effort. He made himself the centre of the table, and he was so vivacious that none wished to question his supremacy. His stories had never been better, and he told them with a gusto that added vastly to their humour. He was never at a loss for a repartee; his sallies and quaint turns kept the party so well entertained that Mrs. Fitzherbert was radiant. She had never given a more successful dinner, and had the satisfaction of knowing that her guests thoroughly enjoyed themselves. When they thanked her on leaving, it was with a sincerity which she knew was unusual on similar occasions. She felt grateful to Canon Spratte. “And now that every one has gone you must sit down and smoke a cigarette, and we’ll have a quiet chat.” “That’s just what I should like. I’ve got something to say to you.” “Have you? That’s very odd, because I have too.” He seated himself, and she noticed that for the first time in their acquaintance, he was embarrassed. She looked at him with smiling eyes, but to him they seemed disconcertingly ironic. “I think we should go back to the conversation we had before dinner,” he said. “Would you think it very odd if I made a suggestion?” He waited for a reply, but she gave none, and he was forced to proceed. There was no doubt about it, he was growing exceedingly nervous. “Well, I suggested then that we should be married in six weeks. I’m afraid it sounds very ungallant if I propose now that we should wait a little.” “How long?” she asked quietly. “Oh, I don’t know--perhaps a year, two at the utmost. You see, I’m not exactly hard up, but----” He hesitated again, for once in his life at a loss for words. “The fact is I don’t see how we can possibly marry till I get a bishopric. I’m practically certain to get one soon--there’s no one with half the claims I have, and I think I can boast of a certain amount of influence.” “Two years is a long time at our age,” she smiled. “Especially for a woman. You know, even now, you’re ever so much younger in spirit than I am; I’m afraid that each day will increase the difference between us.” He paused for the very shortest space of time.