Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=. The book uses em-dashes as ellipses at the ends of sentences. These have been left spaced as in the original text. _By the Same Author:_ WYMPS: Fairy Tales. With eight coloured illustrations by Mrs. Percy Dearmer. AT THE RELTON ARMS: A Novel. THE MAKING OF A SCHOOL-GIRL. THE MAKING OF A PRIG BY EVELYN SHARP JOHN LANE: THE BODLEY HEAD NEW YORK AND LONDON 1897 _Copyright, 1897_, BY JOHN LANE. _All rights reserved._ University Press: JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. The Making of a Prig CHAPTER I It was supper time at the Rectory, and the Rector had not come in. There were two conflicting elements at the Rectory, the Rector's disregard of details and his sister's sense of their importance. There was only one will, however, and that was his sister's. So the meals were always punctual, and the Rector was always late; a fact that by its very recurrence would have long ceased to be important, had not Miss Esther loved to accentuate it by a certain formula of complaint that varied as little as the offence itself. This evening, however, he was later than usual; and Miss Esther did not attempt to conceal her impatience as she glanced from the old clock in the corner down to the fire-place, where another familiar grievance awaited her. "Katharine, how often have I told you not to lie on the rug like a great boy?" she said querulously, in the tone of one who has not the courage or the character to be really angry. She added immediately, "I want you to ring the bell for the soup." The girl on the floor rolled over lazily, and shut her book with a bang. "Daddy hasn't come in yet," she said, sitting up on her heels and shaking the hair out of her eyes. A latent spirit of revolt was in her tone, although she spoke half absently, as if her thoughts were still with her book. Miss Esther tapped her foot on the ground impatiently. "It is exactly two minutes to eight," she said sharply. "I asked you to ring the bell, Katharine." The girl walked across the room in a leisurely manner, and did as she was told with a great assumption of doing as she wished. Then she sat on the arm of the nearest chair, and the rebellious look returned to her face. "How do you know it is daddy's fault, Aunt Esther? The Stoke road is awfully bad, and it's blowing hard from the north-west. He may have been kept, and cold soup's beastly. I think it's a shame."