"Why not? I hate irregularity," she answered. "I should have thought regular habits would have been the first essential in Herbert's department--towards getting on in it, that is." "Well, he has got on in it, regular habits or not. You can't deny that, my dear, at any rate." "It delays everything so," went on the grievance-monger. "The servants can't clear away, or get to their work. Herbert knows we have breakfast at half-past eight and now it's after nine, and there's no sign of him. I can't keep the house going on those lines, so it's of no use trying." "Well, you'll soon be in a position to reform him to your heart's content," said the Vicar with a twinkle in his eye--and there came a grim, set look about the other's rather thin-lipped mouth which augured ill for Raynier's domestic peace in the future. Cynthia Daintree had just missed being pretty. Her straight features were too coldly severe, and her grey eyes a trifle too steely, but her brown hair was soft and abundant, and there were occasions when her face could light up, and become attractive. She was tall, and had a remarkably fine figure, and as she managed to dress well on somewhat limited resources, the verdict was that she was a striking-looking girl. But she had a temper, a very decided temper--which, it was whispered, was accountable for the fact that now, at very much nearer thirty than twenty, her recent engagement to Herbert Raynier was by no means her first. Now the offender entered, characteristically careless. "Morning, Cynthia. Hallo, you look disobliged. What's the row? Morning, Vicar." This was not the best way of throwing oil upon the troubled sea, but then the whole thing was so incomprehensible to Raynier. He could not understand how people could make a fuss over such a trifle as whether one man ate a bit of toast, and played the fool with a boiled egg, half an hour sooner or half an hour later. There was no train to catch, no business of vital importance to be transacted, here in this sleepy little country place. His _fiancee_ could have had precious little experience of the graver issues of life if that sort of thing disturbed her. "You've only yourself to thank if everything's cold," answered Cynthia, snappishly. "I don't mind--even if there isn't anything to get cold. Feeding at this end of the day isn't in my line at all. I hardly ever touch anything between _chota hazri_ and tiffin over there." "Well, but over here you might try to be a little more punctual." "Too old. Besides, I'm on furlough," returned Raynier, maliciously teasing. It was the only way of veiling his resentment. He did not take kindly to being perpetually found fault with, and still less so the first thing in the morning. "Don't you agree with me, Vicar? A man on furlough should be allowed a few venial sins?"