Always, when these problems presented themselves for solution, Fancy would hesitate and blush a little, which hugely delighted Alfred, who set himself the pleasant task of framing questions during his drives to and from Salisbury to be answered on the next Sunday. Having taken time to collect her powers of speech, Fancy said solemnly: "Some rich people as well as poor have lean souls." "Rich people? Do you know any rich people?" "No, but David says so." "David? You don't mean David Mucklow? He's a pore soul, sure enough." "I was speaking of King David, who wrote the Psalms. When people's bodies wax fat with riches, their souls grow lean." Alfred nodded, feeling slightly uncomfortable. He weighed an honest fifteen stone. "Ah-h-h! They wax so fat that they stick in the Narrer Gate?" "Yes; I suppose so." Alfred considered this, frowning. Then his face brightened. "I see you slipping through that Gate like a lozenge." "Oh, please don't say that! 'Tis a figure of speech, Mr. Yellam. Thin people may have lean souls. I sometimes think that my soul is lean, when I lie awake thinking of--of----" "Of what, dear?" "Of myself, and what I want for myself." "What do you want?" "Lots and lots of things." She evaded further questions, arousing a keener curiosity. Her elusiveness frightened him. He couldn't understand anybody lying awake after an honest day's toil. He tried to picture her lying sleepless, with her luminous eyes gazing into the darkness. Did she think of him? Did she really want him as he wanted her? The mere thought of her frail little body aroused a strange reverence. His mother was right. A puff of wind would blow her out of parish, blow her out of sight, blow her bang through the Narrow Gate. And feeling this, with the stabbing, ever-recurring reflection that she was the least fleshly of mortal women whom he knew, he would not willingly have added half a cubit to her stature or half a pound to her weight. In his eyes, she was just right. Upon a never-to-be-forgotten Sunday, much rain had fallen. Fancy, who, like most servants, wore too thin shoes, perpetrated a mild joke: "'Twill be dryer on the river than on land, Alfred." For some time they had called each other by their Christian names. "You're right, Fancy." The motor-'bus, gloriously red-and-yellow, shining like a sunset, had been brought homealong the night before. Alfred shewed it to Fancy, expatiating upon its superlative merits and beauties till Fancy's jealousy was kindled afresh. Oddly enough, urban though the girl was and advanced in her ideas, she felt as Mrs. Yellam did about machinery. Whirring wheels and roarings and rampings aroused queer qualms in her. Alfred took out the heavy silver watch which had belonged to his father, and balanced it on the radiator. Then he proceeded to "race" the engine, although he had been advised not to do so. The watch never quivered, but Fancy did. She put her hands to her small ears, and ejaculated: "O-h-h!"