"Sophie Bunch came last night to put up her banns," he said. "She's going to marry out of the parish, isn't she?" "Yes, a Tunbridge Wells man." The curate carefully blotted the entries he had made, and returned the heavy books to their place. "Will you come into the dining-room, Dryland?" said the Vicar, with a certain solemnity. "Mrs Jackson would like to speak to you." "Certainly." Mrs. Jackson was reading the _Church Times_. Her thin, sharp face wore an expression of strong disapproval; her tightly-closed mouth, her sharp nose, even the angular lines of her body, signified clearly that her moral sense was outraged. She put her hand quickly to her massive fringe to see that it was straight, and rose to shake hands with Mr. Dryland. His heavy red face assumed at once a grave look; his moral sense was outraged, too. "Isn't this dreadful news, Mr. Dryland?" "Oh, very sad! Very sad!" In both their voices, hidden below an intense sobriety, there was discernible a slight ring of exultation. "The moment I saw him I felt he would give trouble," said Mrs. Jackson, shaking her head. "I told you, Archibald, that I didn't like the look of him." "I'm bound to say you did," admitted her lord and master. "Mary Clibborn is much too good for him," added Mrs. Jackson, decisively. "She's a saint." "The fact is, that he's suffering from a swollen head," remarked the curate, who used slang as a proof of manliness. "There, Archibald!" cried the lady, triumphantly. "What did I tell you?" "Mrs. Jackson thought he was conceited." "I don't think it; I'm sure of it. He's odiously conceited. All the time I was talking to him I felt he considered himself superior to me. No nice-minded man would have refused our offer to say a short prayer on his behalf during morning service." "Those army men always have a very good opinion of themselves," said Mr. Dryland, taking advantage of his seat opposite a looking-glass to arrange his hair. He spoke in such a round, full voice that his shortest words carried a sort of polysyllabic weight. "I can't see what he has done to be so proud of," said Mrs. Jackson. "Anyone would have done the same in his position. I'm sure it's no more heroic than what clergymen do every day of their lives, without making the least fuss about it." "They say that true courage is always modest," answered Mr. Dryland. The remark was not very apposite, but sounded damaging. "I didn't like the way he had when he came to tea here--as if he were dreadfully bored. I'm sure he's not so clever as all that." "No clever man would act in an ungentlemanly way," said the curate, and then smiled, for he thought he had unconsciously made an epigram. "I couldn't express in words what I feel with regard to his treatment of Mary!" cried Mrs. Jackson; and then proceeded to do so--and in many, to boot.