"It appears that for some time his near neighbours in the country looked a little coldly on him on the grounds that, being a writer, he must be Bohemian. At last the local doctor's wife and clergyman's wife called on him, and finding him perfectly respectable, stayed for many hours. They were particularly tedious and rather self-righteous. When they had gone, he said thoughtfully to some one who was pitying him for being bored, 'One of those poor wantons has a certain cadaverous grace.'" The story was well received, except by Van Buren, who seemed painfully shocked. Daphne, who had gone into the house to fetch some snapshots, now came running back saying-- "Val, Val! The Campbells are arriving in a fly, and they seem to have brought their foreigner with them--that man Miss Campbell told me about. He's a kind of Belgian, and awfully clever--he's invented something." "What's he invented?" "Brussels sprouts?" suggested Harry rather sleepily. "But they've been invented already." "Why shouldn't he invent them over again? Give him a chance." Muir began to sing softly, "Young Lochinvar has come out of the West," which he appeared to think a suitable serenade, but he stopped suddenly at Gillie's entreaty. "I don't mind anything Muir does, as long as he doesn't sing," he always explained. "It's awful hard lines. I've got a ripping baritone voice, but I never have a chance to use it," murmured Muir. "You shall sing to me this afternoon. I'll accompany you," whispered Daphne. Muir had gratefully answered that it was frightfully decent of her, when the servant announced-- "Mrs. and Miss Campbell. Mr.----" He left a blank, unable to pronounce the name. But Mrs. Campbell introduced Mynheer von Stoendyck. * * * * * Mrs. Campbell was an amiable, colourless woman, with a greyish brown fringe that looked as if it were made of Berlin wool. Though she was not yet forty-five, she wore a bonnet with violet velvet strings, and had a very long waist. Also, her skirt, in reality quite normal, looked, to the eye used to contemporary fashion, grotesquely wide at the end. Her daughter was an ordinary Rectory girl, spoilt by a dash of culture. At a glance all present saw she was in love with Mr. Stoendyck. He was a well-set-up man of about thirty-five, with a military manner and scientific eye-glasses, also a turned-up light moustache. He spoke all languages with one rasping accent, but Mrs. Campbell seemed to suffer under the delusion that he could only understand broken English. So whenever people spoke to him she translated their remarks into a sort of baby language that seemed singularly out of place from her. "I'm afraid you must think me dreadfully worldly, calling on you on a Sunday," said Mrs. Campbell, laughing socially as she sat down. "But what the Prebendary always says is, the better the day the better the deed."