“Now look here, vicar,” said Gazelee Payne Murdwell, with an easy note of intimacy, “you and I have got to know one another. And it has got to be soon. This is all new to me.” Mr. Murdwell waved a jeweled and romantic hand, a fine gesture, which included a part of Kent, a part of Sussex, a suggestion of Surrey, and even a suspicion of Hampshire. “And I’m new to you. As I figure you out at the moment, even allowing a liberal discount for the state of Europe, you are rather like a comic opera”--the vicar drew in his lips primly--“and as you figure me out, if looks mean anything, I’m fit for a Mappin Terrace at the Zoo. But that’s a wrong attitude. We’ve got to come together. And the sooner the better, because you are going to find me a pretty good neighbor.” “I have not the least doubt of that, Mr.--er--Murdwell,” said the vicar, glancing deliberately and augustly at the card in his hand. “Well, as a guaranty of good intentions on both sides, suppose you and your daughter dine at Longwood on Wednesday? I am a bachelor at the moment, but Juley--my wife--and Bud--my daughter--will be down by then.” “Wednesday!” The vicar’s left eyebrow was mobilized in the form of a slight frown. But the invitation had come so entirely unawares that unless he pleaded an engagement which didn’t exist, and his conscience therefore would not have sanctioned, there really seemed no way of escape. “You will? Wednesday. A quarter to eight. That’s bully.” And in order to clinch the matter, Mr. Murdwell slipped an arm through the vicar’s, and slowly accompanied him as far as the vicarage gate. XV MANY things, however, had to happen in the parish before Mr. Perry-Hennington could dine at Longwood on Wednesday. And the first of them in the order of their occurrence was an inquiry of Edith’s at the Sunday luncheon in regard to their new neighbor. “A most curious man has just waylaid me,” the vicar said. “An American, who says he has taken Longwood.” “Oh, yes,” said Edith, in her precise voice. “The _odd_-looking man in church this morning, I suppose?” “He gave me his card.” The vicar produced the card, and requested Prince, the parlor maid, to hand it to Miss Edith. “He insists on our dining at Longwood on Wednesday. It seems only neighborly to do so.” “Immensely rich, I believe,” said Edith, scanning the card at her leisure, with the aid of a pair of tortoise shell spectacles, which she wore with considerable effect. “Who is he? What is he?” There might, or there might not have been a slight accession of interest to the vicar’s tone. “Lady Tyrwhitt was talking about him the other day. He is a great American inventor, the discoverer of Murdwell’s Law.” “Ah-h,” said the vicar, intelligently. But Murdwell’s Law was a sealed book to him. “Immensely important scientific fact, I believe,” Edith explained. “Lady Tyrwhitt seems to know all about it. I couldn’t grasp it myself. I only know that Lady Tyrwhitt says it is going to revolutionize everything.”