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wanting me for, but she was only ringing up to tell me that all the congregation of St Luke’s were invited to a social evening in the parish hall at eight o’clock next Saturday to meet Father Ransome, the new assistant priest. It had been announced after Mass on Sunday and she thought I would like to know.
    ‘But where is he going to live?’ I asked. ‘Is that settled?’
    ‘Oh yes—with us’ said Mary. ‘We have two spare rooms which he is to have temporarily, and he can cook his own breakfast on a gas ring. He will have his other meals at the clergy house.’
    I was both annoyed and amused at her news, annoyed because for some reason I did not want him to live at the Beamishes, and amused at the picture of him cooking his own breakfast on a gas ring. The whole thing seemed most unsuitable. But I certainly intended to go to the social evening in the parish hall. I had the feeling that it might be quite an interesting occasion.

Chapter Four
    When Saturday came Sybil began to be worried about how I should manage my evening meal.
    ‘Eight o’clock is such an impractical time,’ she said. ‘It does seem that the Church is out of touch with life—one sees what people mean when they say that. Though I suppose,’ she added, fair as usual, ‘that eight o’clock is probably a convenient time for people who have been working till five or six and had a meal immediately afterwards. And of course people who have to go to work wouldn’t want to stay up too late.’
    ‘But tomorrow is Sunday,’ I pointed out, ‘so I suppose it is chosen for all of us, so that we may get up early to go to church.’
    ‘Father Thames, from what you’ve told me, doesn’t seem the kind of man who would naturally enjoy a cup of tea and a bun at eight o’clock in the evening. I wonder how he will be managing?’
    ‘I suppose he is conditioned to it after so many years,’ I said, ‘so there won’t be any problem. I daresay Mr Bason will be giving them a high tea, or something like that.’ Then I remembered that Father Thames always heard confessions at half past six on Saturday evenings, so that was something else to be fitted in.
    ‘Won’t you at least have a drink before you go?’ Sybil asked. ‘I’m sure you’ll need it.’
    I refused, thinking that it might not mix very well with the refreshments I should get at the parish hall, and it occurred to me that one could perhaps classify different groups or circles of people according to drink. I myself seemed to belong to two very clearly defined circles—the Martini drinkers and the tea drinkers though I was only just beginning to be initiated into the latter. I imagined that both might offer different kinds of comfort, though there would surely be times when one might prefer the one that wasn’t available. Indeed, as I approached the parish hall, which was next door to the clergy house, I began to wish that I had paid more heed to Sybil’s suggestion of a drink. I never think of myself as being nervous socially—I am always perfectly confident when entering the room at a party—but this occasion seemed unlike any I had experienced before. I suppose that church gatherings inevitably attract the strangest mixture of people, and I felt a little apprehensive as I pushed open the door, my eyes fixing themselves on the green walls, hung with rather chipped ‘Della Robbia’ plaques indicating Father Thames’s interest in all things Italian. Would there be anyone to whom I could easily talk? I took courage from the assumption that practically everyone in the congregation would have come to meet or have a look at Father Ransome; it wouldn’t be like a whist drive which attracted a very limited circle, so there was a chance that I might find somebody congenial.
    It seemed that I was right, for the hall was very crowded. I noticed that the lay people had arranged themselves in little groups, each clearly distinguishable from the others. As a kind of centrepiece there was old