Eliphalet was touched to a point of exaggeration. “What a happy and fortunate man your good husband is to possess such a wife.” And so saying, he took his hat from the hall stand and went out into the street. The keen evening air felt like a cool hand upon his brow, and Eliphalet hummed to himself as he went. He turned into the High Street as the Town Hall clock struck six. Six! He was very early. The curtain didn’t rise until 7.30, and a quarter of an hour was ample time to assume the clerical garb of the Reverend Coles. Wherefore he had a full hour to spend as he liked, and it was a delicious evening for a walk. Beyond the fringe of factory chimneys lay rolling downs and green valleys—valleys with light-hearted brooks chuckling among the stones. Years had passed since he sat beside a brook, with the water thrilling his bare toes—and all of a sudden a great desire possessed him to be alone in a solitude of water and willows. There was a policeman standing a few paces away, and to him Eliphalet said: “Could you direct me to a valley with a stream running through it—where I can be all to myself—alone?” The policeman, a broad-beamed Lancashire lad, regarded him suspiciously. “I can tell you where you’ll be alone all right,” he responded, “and happen you’ll find yourself there sooner than you expect unless you get a move on.” “But why?” “Get off.” “But, look here,” said Eliphalet very seriously. “When I was a younger man I used to count the buttons on policemen’s coats.” And with this grave admission, he turned away. He had not gone more than twenty yards before his attention was attracted by two small boys and a little girl, their noses glued to the windows of a confectioner’s. “Are you hungry?” he demanded. All three turned their attention from the magnetic charms of mince-pies and Maids-of-Honour to the æsthetic and deeply-seamed features of Eliphalet Cardomay. There was something in his countenance which at once dispelled any inclinations to tell untruths. It was such an open and kindly face—like that of an old baby—and the child he had addressed turned from the contemplation of it to judge the effect his words had made upon the other two. Presently the little girl replied, “Noa, us isn’t ’oongry, but us cud do wi’ soom of they there.” “So could I,” said Eliphalet. “Come along.” At the head of this little ragged band he entered the shop and addressed a comfortable looking matron who was arranging macaroons on a glass stand. “We have come to eat cakes, madam,” he announced. “Chelsea buns, tarts with jam on them, doughnuts and sweet almond biscuits. We are not hungry, you understand, but we want these things, for the children do not know their flavours—and I have forgotten them.”