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become of them; Lowry, the innkeeper, applied for, and was refused, even the right to sell mineral waters on the great day; the vicar helped the local troop to pitch the bell-tent and the fair-people erected their marquees. The fair lent us their big marquee for the refreshments, and paid five pounds for the privilege of attending the fête with roundabouts and swings. They were also under contract not to damage the turf, of course. “Sez you!” as William succinctly observed. Anyway, we all returned to the vicarage that evening with the feeling of a job well done, I suppose. I know that I did. It had begun to rain. A slight but determined drizzle had commenced, and at seven o’clock, just as our vicarage party was sitting down to a belated and badly-needed tea, the rain was falling steadily.
    â€œWe shall have to put Much Hartley in first, uncle,” observed William, holding his slice of bread and jam out at arm’s length in order to inspect the large semicircular inroad which his first bite had made. He giggled suddenly.
    â€œMuch Hartley,” he said, indicating the jam. Thejoke lasted him, on and off”, for the duration of the meal. His was a simple nature, of course.
    â€œMr. Gatty is leaving on the tenth and going to Switzerland,” said Daphne suddenly.
    â€œWhat?” said her aunt. “Who told you that?”
    â€œMrs. Bor—Bradley, Aunt. It’s part of Mrs. Gatty’s cure, but Mrs. Gatty doesn’t know he’s going.”
    â€œYou know, that’s an extraordinary woman, that Mrs. Gatty,” said the vicar. “I don’t believe she’s mad at all. I believe it’s simply a pose to obtain sympathy. It’s her husband I’m sorry for.”
    â€œYou would be,” remarked Mrs. Coutts, with bitterness. She was eating nothing, and she poured out for herself another cup of tea.
    â€œA little bread and butter, my dear Caroline,” said the vicar. He had shaved early that morning and already the bristles of a new crop of stubble were visible upon his chin. He felt it, unconscious that he was doing so.
    â€œOh, please keep your hand away from your face, Bedivere,” said Mrs. Coutts. She spoke sharply, for she was tired out. Daphne put down her knife and was about to speak when her uncle prevented it by saying to me:
    â€œCome along to the study, Wells, will you, and hear my headings and sub-headings for to-morrow?”
    â€œI do hope you are going to make an announcement about the fête,” said Mrs. Coutts, reverting to a week-old argument. “And I hope you will put it strongly. The behaviour last year made me shudder!”
    â€œThen all I can say, my dear,” retorted Bedivere Coutts, who was also tired, I suppose, “is that somepeople must be very fond of shuddering. Kindly remember that you are not compelled to stay and shudder. Show a little decency and come home at the proper time on Monday evening. Really, I advise it!”
    He was remorseful, I should imagine, before the sentence was concluded, but he would not admit it. Somehow one never did admit to being in the wrong to Mrs. Coutts. She was a singularly ungracious woman, of course. Instead, the vicar rose from the table, signed to me to accompany him, and left the dining room. I did not follow immediately. It seemed rather frightful to walk out on the woman like that. I hesitated. Mrs. Coutts put her head down and began to cry. William Coutts rose from the table and stood kicking the edge of the fender in miserable and self-conscious embarrassment. He felt, I suppose, that there was something which ought to be said, something which ought to be done. The sight of his aunt’s bowed head must have given him the most unpleasant sensations. The kicking of the fender grew unendurable to Mrs. Coutts, I think. Besides, she knew that Daphne and I were still in the room. She raised her head, glared through her tears at her nephew and cried