Diana looked away quickly, refusing to endorse the Rector's invitation, and, escaping to her own room, she made a hasty toilet, slipping into a simple little black gown open at the throat. Meanwhile, she tortured herself with questioning as to why--if all that had passed meant nothing to him--he had chosen to stay. Once she hid her burning face in her hands as the memory of those kisses rushed over her afresh, sending little, new, delicious thrills coursing through her veins. Then once more the maddening doubt assailed her--were they but a bitter humiliation which she would remember for the rest of her life? When she came downstairs again, Max Errington and Stair were conversing happily together, evidently on the best of terms with themselves and each other. Errington was speaking as she entered the room, but he stopped abruptly, biting his words off short, while his keen eyes swept over the slim, black-gowned figure hesitating in the doorway. "Mr. Stair has been pledging your word during your absence," he said. "He has promised that you'll sing to us after dinner." "I? Oh"--nervously--"I don't think I want to sing this evening." "Why not? Have the"--he made an infinitesimal pause, regarding her the while with quizzical eyes--"events of the afternoon robbed you of your voice?" Diana gave him back his look defiantly. How dared he--oh, how dared he?--she thought indignantly. "My adventures weren't serious enough for that," she replied composedly. The ghost of a smile flickered across his face. "Then you will sing?" he persisted. "Yes, if you like." He nodded contentedly, and as they went in to dinner he whispered:-- "I found the adventure--rather serious." Dinner passed pleasantly enough. Errington and Stair contributed most of the conversation, the former proving himself a charming guest, and it was evident that the two men had taken a great liking to each other. It would have been a difficult subject indeed who did not feel attracted by Alan Stair; he was so unconventionally frank and sincere, brimming over with humour, and he regarded every man as his friend until he had proved him otherwise--and even then he was disposed to think that the fault must lie somewhere in himself. "I'm not surprised that your church was so full on Sunday," Errington told him, "now that I've met you. If the Church of England clergy, as a whole, were as human as you are, you would have fewer offshoots from your Established Church. I always think"--reminiscently--"that that is where the strength of the Roman Catholic _padre_ lies--in his intense _humanness_." The Sector looked up in surprise. "Then you're not a member of our Church?" he asked. For a moment Errington looked embarrassed, as though he had said more than he wished to. "Oh, I was merely comparing the two," he replied evasively. "I have lived abroad a good bit, you know."