The door into the great hall opened as David stepped out of the motor. A footman took his overcoat, and he found himself following an elderly butler across the spacious hall toward a door, which he flung open, announcing in confidential tones: "The Reverend David Rivers"; then stood aside, that David might enter. David had already been looking right and left for Chappie; and, even as he walked into the drawing-room, he had a seductive whistle ready in case the poodle came to meet him, before he could reach Diana's friendly hand. But neither Diana nor the poodle were in the drawing-room. Instead, on a large sofa, at right angles with the fireplace, in the midst of heaped up cushions, sat a very plump elderly lady, of haughty mien, clad in claret-coloured velvet, a nodding ornament in her white hair, and much jewellery on her fat neck. She raised a lorgnon, on a long tortoiseshell handle, and looked through it at David as he advanced toward her. There was such awe-inspiring majesty in the action, that David felt certain she must be, at the very least, a duchess. He seemed to be hours in reaching the sofa. It was like one of those long walks taken in dreams, covering miles, yet only advancing yards; and as he walked his clerical jacket grew shorter, and his boots more patently _not_ patent leather. When, at last, he reached the hearthrug--nothing happened. The plump lady had, apparently, no disengaged hand; one held the lorgnon; the other, a large feather fan. "D'y do?" she said, in a rather husky voice. "I conclude you are Diana's missionary." This was an almost impossible remark to answer. David was _not_ Diana's missionary; yet he was, undoubtedly, the missionary Diana had asked to dinner. In his embarrassment he held his warm hands to the blaze of the log-fire, and said: "What a beautiful Christmas-day!" The plump lady ignored the remark. She declined to recognise anything in common between her Christmas-day and David's. "Where is your sphere of work?" she demanded, hoarsely. "Central Africa," replied David, in a meek voice, devoutly wishing himself back there. At that moment the door burst open, by reason of a bump against it, and a black poodle trotted in, identical with the dog of David's imagining, excepting that its tufts were tied up with red ribbon. David whistled joyfully. "Hullo, Chappie!" he said. "Come here, old fellow." The poodle paused, surprised, and looked at him; one fore-paw uplifted. The plump lady made an inarticulate sound, and dropped her lorgnon. But David felt sure of his ground. "Come on, Chappie," he said. "Let's be friends." The poodle trotted up and shook hands. David bent down and patted his beautiful coat.