“Ah!” said the curate, “ah! indeed!” He smiled as he gazed into the fire, and stroked his chin. In the other’s place, he thought, he would have been more reticent. He would not have disclaimed, though he might not have claimed, acquaintance with Lord Dynmore. He would have left the thing shadowy, to be defined by others as they pleased. Thinking thus, he got up somewhat abruptly, and wished Lindo good-night. A cool observer, indeed, might have noticed—but the rector did not—a change in his manner as he did so—a little accession of familiarity, which did seem not far removed from a delicate kind of contempt. The change was subtle, but one thing was certain. Stephen Clode had no longer any intention of leaving Claversham in a hurry. That resolve was gone. Once out of the house, he passed quickly from the churchyard by a narrow lane leading to an irregular open space quaintly called “The Top of the Town.” Here were his own lodgings, on the first-floor over a stationer’s; but he did not enter them. Instead, he strode on toward the farther and darker side of the square, where were no buildings, but a belt of tall trees stood up, gaunt and rustling in the night wind above a line of wall. Through the trees the lights of a large house were visible. He walked up the avenue which led to the door and, ringing loudly, was at once admitted. The sound of the bell came to the ears of two ladies who had been for some time placidly expecting it. They were seated in a small but charming room filled with soft, shaded light and warmth and color, an open piano and dainty pictures and china, and a well-littered writing-table all contributing to the air of accustomed luxury which pervaded it. The elder lady—that Mrs. Hammond whom we saw talking to the curate on the day of the old rector’s funeral—looked up expectantly as Mr. Clode entered, and, extending to him a podgy white hand covered with rings, began to chide him in a rich full voice for being so late. “I have been dying,” she said cheerfully, “to hear what is the fate before us, Mr. Clode. What is he like?” “Well,” he answered, taking with a word of thanks the cup of tea which Laura offered him, “I have one surprise in store for you. He is comparatively young.” “Sixty?” said Mrs. Hammond interrogatively. “Forty?” said Laura, raising her eyebrows. “No,” Clode replied, smiling and stirring his tea, “you must guess again. He is twenty-six.” “Twenty-six! You are joking,” exclaimed the elder lady. While Laura opened her eyes very wide, but said nothing yet. “No,” said the curate. “He told me himself that he was not born until 1854.”