"You are lucky to have such a good man as vicar," I said. "Sometimes there is--well, a lack of sympathy between the Vicarage and the Hall. I remember--the case isn't quite parallel, of course, but the moral is much the same--I remember a curate my father had once..." Now, my story of that curate is thoroughly sound. It is full of incident and humour and not at all derogatory to the prestige of the church. I have been asked for it, more than once, by hostesses. And though I am rather sick of it myself, I still fall back on it in cases of such urgency as I judged the present one to be. I thought that I had been lucky to get so easy an opening to produce the anecdote with relevance, and I counted on it for a good five minutes relief from the constraint of making polite conversation. Mrs. Jervaise's response began to open my eyes to the state of the new relations that now existed between myself and the rest of the party. She did not even allow me to begin. She ignored my opening entirely, and looking down the table towards her husband said, "Mr. Sturton preached from the tenth of Hebrews, 'Let us hold fast the profession of our faith without wavering.' Quite a coincidence, wasn't it?" "Indeed? Yes, quite a coincidence," Mr. Jervaise replied without enthusiasm. He did not look as cheerful as I had anticipated, but he wore the air of a man who has had at least a temporary reprieve. "Olive and I were quite struck by it; weren't we, dear?" Mrs. Jervaise continued, dragging in her daughter's evidence. "Yes, it was very odd," Olive agreed tepidly. I never knew what the coincidence was, but I judge from Mrs. Jervaise's insistence that it was something perfectly futile. I glanced across at Hughes, and guessed that he was not less bored than I was myself, but when I caught his eye he looked hastily away. I was beginning to wonder what I had done, but I valiantly tried again. "Don't you think it possible that many cases of apparent coincidences are probably due to telepathy?" I said genially, addressing the dangerous-looking profile of my hostess. She gave an impatient movement of her head that reminded me of a parrot viciously digging out the kernel of a nut. "I really can't say," she said, pointedly turned to Gordon Hughes, who was on her other side, and asked him if he had played much tennis lately. I looked round the table for help, but none of the party would meet my eyes, avoiding my glance with a determination that could not be mistaken. I might have suffered from some loathsome deformity. Frank, alone, appeared unaware of my innocent appeal for an explanation. He was bending gloomily over his plate, apparently absorbed in his own thoughts--though how any man could be gloomy after his recent experience it was beyond me to imagine.