"He says it is the duty of a curate with only his stipend to depend upon to marry a woman of independent means. I think myself he will marry Matilda. He would like to belong to the family; the factory attracts him." "Money-grubbing little worm!" said Bobby, who was barely a year younger than Prudence and presumed on that account to set aside her more responsible relationship. "I wish he would marry Aunt Agatha. That would be something of a lark." "Poor little man!" said Prudence. "He's not so impossible as all that. And he is horribly afraid of her. She makes him stammer." Bobby laughed outright. "We're all horribly afraid of her. That's the funny part of it. And yet, you know, if one turned round and cheeked her she'd crumple up. I'll do it one day." Prudence regarded him with increased respect. "I hope I'll be there," was all she said. CHAPTER NINE. Bobby made the acquaintance of the curate very soon after that talk. They met for the first time at the vicarage garden party, which, according to an invariable rule, was held on Mrs North's birthday. This enabled the vicar's wife to display her birthday gifts, exciting by their numerical strength rather than their quality envy in the breasts of those guests less favoured in the matter of tokens of esteem on the important day which by right of precedent we appropriate to ourselves, and causing embarrassment to the more neglectful of her visitors by this reminder of a custom ignored. She made little self-depreciatory remarks in displaying these absurd articles, which wore in most instances an appearance of having come from some bazaar stall and a dejected air of expectation that eventually they would return thither by reason of their uselessness, and be sold and resold at extortionate prices for charitable ends.