There was no gainsaying the crisp decisiveness of these orders, and with an apology to the Vicar, he started off. He was forced to own to himself that these expeditions with the younger girl constituted his best times. It never occurred to Cynthia to be jealous of her sister, not in the ordinary sense, although once or twice she was rather acid on the subject of his preferring so much of the latter's society. The fact was, Sylvia was lacking in feminine attractions, being plain and somewhat angular. But she was always lively and good-natured, and to that extent a positive relief from the other, albeit an effective foil to her in looks. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Sunday had come round, and Cynthia had got up in a bad temper--we have observed that upon some people the first day of the week has that effect--consequently, when Raynier hinted at the possibility of his not going to church it exploded. The idea of such a thing! Why, of course he must go, staying at the Vicarage as he was. What would be said in the parish? "But it didn't matter what was said in the parish last Sunday. You wouldn't let me come then because I was too ugly," he urged, with a mischievous wink at Sylvia. "Well, so you were, but your face is nearly all right again now," answered Cynthia, briskly, and with acerbity, for she had no sense of fun. "Not it. You'll see it'll keep all the choir boys staring, and they can't warble with their heads cocked round at right angles to the rest of them." Sylvia spluttered. "All the more reason why you should come, Herbert," she said. "I want to see that. It'll be good sport." "If you were a boy you'd be a typical parson's son, Silly," he laughed. "Shut up. I'll throw something at you if you call me that." "Do, and you'll keep up the part," he returned. Worthingham Church was in close resemblance to a thousand or so other village churches of its size and circumstance, in that it was old and picturesque, and gave forth the same flavour of mould and damp stones. There was the same rustic choir with newly-oiled heads and clattering boots and skimpy surplices, singing the same hackneyed hymns, and the Vicar's sermon was on the same level of prosiness, not that he could not have done better, but he had long since ceased to think it worth while taking the trouble. But Cynthia Daintree, seated in the front pew, well gowned and tastefully hatted, and withal complacently conscious of the same, was the presiding goddess, at whom the rustics aforesaid never seemed tired of furtively staring--in awe, which somewhat outweighed their admiration--therein well-nigh overlooking the discoloured countenance of her _fiance_. "Cynthia always looks as if she'd bought up the whole show," pronounced Sylvia, subsequently and irreverently.