("They're just by the wardrobe"), said Mrs Mendham. "He always was a little queer, you know. There was always something childish about him.... An Angel!" The Curate came and stood by the fire, fumbling with his braces. Mrs Mendham liked a fire even in the summer. "He shirks all the serious problems in life and is always trifling with some new foolishness," said the Curate. "Angel indeed!" He laughed suddenly. "Hilyer _must_ be mad," he said. Mrs Mendham laughed too. "Even that doesn't explain the hunchback," she said. "The hunchback must be mad too," said the Curate. "It's the only way of explaining it in a sensible way," said Mrs Mendham. [_Pause._] "Angel or no angel," said Mrs Mendham, "I know what is due to me. Even supposing the man thought he _was_ in the company of an angel, that is no reason why he should not behave like a gentleman." "That is perfectly true." "You will write to the Bishop, of course?" Mendham coughed. "No, I shan't write to the Bishop," said Mendham. "I think it seems a little disloyal.... And he took no notice of the last, you know." "But surely----" "I shall write to Austin. In confidence. He will be sure to tell the Bishop, you know. And you must remember, my dear----" "That Hilyer can dismiss you, you were going to say. My dear, the man's much too weak! _I_ should have a word to say about that. And besides, you do all his work for him. Practically, we manage the parish from end to end. I do not know what would become of the poor if it was not for me. They'd have free quarters in the Vicarage to-morrow. There is that Goody Ansell----" "I know, my dear," said the Curate, turning away and proceeding with his undressing. "You were telling me about her only this afternoon." XXI. And thus in the little bedroom over the gable we reach a first resting place in this story. And as we have been hard at it, getting our story spread out before you, it may be perhaps well to recapitulate a little. Looking back you will see that much has been done; we began with a blaze of light "not uniform but broken all over by curving flashes like the waving of swords," and the sound of a mighty harping, and the advent of an Angel with polychromatic wings. Swiftly, dexterously, as the reader must admit, wings have been clipped, halo handled off, the glory clapped into coat and trousers, and the Angel made for all practical purposes a man, under a suspicion of being either a lunatic or an impostor. You have heard too, or at least been able to judge, what the Vicar and the Doctor and the Curate's wife thought of the strange arrival. And further remarkable opinions are to follow.