Giles's smile was different. It could not be said to "break," but rather to dawn with reluctance. It was rare, but when it did appear, it transformed his face. Phyllys was conscious of the change, though she only said, "Now shall I show you the way home?" "You did not wish to hurry. I am sorry, but I overheard what you said." "How could you help it? I was talking to Wiggles. Yes, I meant to stay away till it should be too late for the meeting." "Shall we arrive later? I can see your grandmother to-morrow, if they will give me a bed at the village Inn." He had not intended to spend the night at Midfell, but decision was prompt. "I should have to say that I had made myself late on purpose. And Grannie—" She came to a meaning pause. "Then shall we go at once?" "I suppose so," regretfully. She walked by his side down the narrow, rutted, stony road, where purple geraniums grew in abundance on the banks. "Grannie and Barbara love those meetings," she remarked. "The Vicar doesn't. He calls them a sort of hodge-podge. But Barbara says I dislike them because I am irreligious." The silence of Giles was more responsive than many people's talk, and it drew her out. "Not that I'm really irreligious," she remarked, prodding the dust with her ancient sunshade. "It depends upon circumstances. When they sing 'O Paradise' in church on Sunday evening I feel any amount religious—almost as if it would be nice to die. But Barbara says that hymn is unsound." "Indeed!" "She says the Vicar is unsound too. He has such a kind face, and everybody loves him, except Barbara and Miss Robins and Mr. Timkins, and perhaps Grannie. I wonder why people with wrong views are nicer than people with right views." "You find that they are?" "Well, there is Mr. Timkins!" Another flash. "Miss Robins—she is Barbara's great friend and she gets up the meetings—she calls Mr. Timkins a saint. He is not my notion of a saint—not one least little scrap. He is one of my pet horrors. Grannie and Barbara and Miss Robins admire him, because they say he is so truly excellent. Do you believe in liking people only because they have right views and are truly good?" "One might, in certain cases, admire the goodness without liking the individual." "But wouldn't you rather be a great deal beloved than have sound views—if you could not do both, I mean? I think I would!" Giles felt that she would never have to grieve over being unloved. Something in her stirred something in him which hitherto had lain dormant. "And you don't think it is wrong to detest excellent people?" Then, with a laugh—"But that is hardly a fair question. I forgot what strangers you and I are!" "I hope we shall not be strangers long." "No. It does not feel now as if we were. I suppose that is because we are cousins. Perhaps some day you and I will be friends!" She said the words smilingly, and he found his pulse throbbing in an unwonted fashion. "I should very much like to be your friend."