And that was all! Jack turned away with his cousins to the nearest stall, and bought and chatted. But he did both at random. His thoughts were elsewhere. He was a keen observer, and he had seen too much for comfort, yet not enough for comprehension. Nor did the occasional glance which he shot at Kate’s preoccupied face, as she bent over the wool-work and “guaranteed hand-paintings,” tend to clear up his doubts or render his mood more cheerful. Meanwhile the rector’s frame of mind, as he rejoined his party, was not a whit more enviable. He was angry with himself, angry with his friend. The sight of Jack standing by Kate’s side had made his own conduct to the girl at his last interview with her appear in a worse light than before—more churlish, more ungrateful. He wished now—but morosely, not with any tenderness of regret—that he had sought some opportunity of saying a word of apology to her. And then Jack? He fancied he saw condemnation written on Jack’s face, and that he too, to whom, in the old days, he had confided his aspirations and resolves, was on the enemy’s side—was blaming him for being on bad terms with his church wardens and for having already come to blows with half the parish. It was not pleasant. But the more unpleasant things he had to face, the higher he would hold his head. He disengaged himself presently—the Hammonds had already preceded him—from the throng and bustle of the heated room, and went down the stairs alone. Outside it was already dark, and small rain was falling. The outlook was wretched, and yet in his present mood he found a tiny satisfaction in the respect with which the crowd of ragamuffins about the door fell back to give him passage. With it all, he was some one. He was rector of the town. At the Hammond’s door he found a carriage waiting in the rain. It was not one he knew, and as he laid down his umbrella he asked the servant whose it was. “It is Lord Dynmore’s, sir,” the man answered, in his low trained voice. “His lordship is in the drawing-room, sir.” CHAPTER XVI. “LORD DYNMORE IS HERE.” When Lord Dynmore, a few minutes before the rector found his carriage at the door, trotted at the heels of the servant into Mrs. Hammond’s drawing-room, his entrance, unexpected as it was, caused a flutter among those assembled there. Lords are still lords in the country, and in the case of his hostess the sensation was wholly one of pleasure. She was pleased to see him. She was still more pleased that he had chosen to call at so opportune a moment, when his light would not be hidden, and James had on his best waistcoat. Consequently she rose to meet him with a beaming smile, and a cordiality only chastened by the knowledge that Mrs. Homfray and the archdeacon’s wife were observing her with critical jealousy. “Why, Lord Dynmore,” she exclaimed, “this is most kind of you!”