“No, he has not come back,” Reginald explained, “but he has sent the man home, and the foolish fellow lost his money on the boat coming over, and wants an advance until his master’s return.” “But why on earth does he come to you for it?” cried the curate, with undisguised, astonishment. The rector shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, I do not know,” he said, a trifle of irritation in his manners. “He did, and there is an end of it. Is there any news?” Mr. Clode seemed to find a difficulty in at once changing the direction of his thoughts. But he did so with an effort, and, after a pause, answered, “No, I think not. There is a good deal of interest felt in the question of the sheep out there, I fancy—whether you will take your course or comply with Mr. Bonamy’s whim.” “I do not know myself,” said the young rector, turning and facing the curate, with his feet apart and his hands thrust deep into his pockets. “I do not, indeed. It is a serious matter.” “It is. Still you have the responsibility,” said the curate with diffidence, “and, without expressing any view of my own on the subject, I confess——” “Well?” “I think if I bore the responsibility, I should feel called upon to do what I myself thought right in the matter.” The younger man shook his head doubtfully. “There is something in that,” he said; “but, on the other hand, one cannot look on the point as an essential, and, that being so, perhaps one should prefer peace. But, there, enough of that now, Clode. I think you said you were not going to the Hammonds’ this evening?” “No, I am not.” The rector almost wished he were not. However sociable a man may be, a few days of solitude and a little temporary depression will render him averse from society if he be sensitive. Lindo as a man was not very sensitive; he held too good an opinion of himself. But as rector he was, and as he walked across to the Town House he anticipated anything but enjoyment.