Tea at Worsted Skeynes was served in the hall on Sundays, and was usually attended by the Rector and his wife.  Young Cecil Tharp had walked over with his dog, which could be heard whimpering faintly outside the front-door.

General Pendyce, with his knees crossed and the tips of his fingers pressed together, was leaning back in his chair and staring at the wall.  The Squire, who held his latest bird’s-egg in his hand, was showing its spots to the Rector.

In a corner by a harmonium, on which no one ever played, Norah talked of the village hockey club to Mrs. Barter, who sat with her eyes fixed on her husband.  On the other side of the fire Bee and young Tharp, whose chairs seemed very close together, spoke of their horses in low tones, stealing shy glances at each other.  The light was failing, the wood logs crackled, and now and then over the cosy hum of talk there fell short, drowsy silences—­silences of sheer warmth and comfort, like the silence of the spaniel John asleep against his master’s boot.

“Well,” said Gregory softly, “I must go and see this man.”

“Is it really necessary, Grig, to see him at all?  I mean—­if you’ve made up your mind——­”

Gregory ran his hand through his hair.

“It’s only fair, I think!” And crossing the hall, he let himself out so quietly that no one but Mrs. Pendyce noticed he had gone.

An hour and a half later, near the railway-station, on the road from the village back to Worsted Skeynes, Mr. Pendyce and his daughter Bee were returning from their Sunday visit to their old butler, Bigson.  The Squire was talking.

“He’s failing, Bee-dear old Bigson’s failing.  I can’t hear what he says, he mumbles so; and he forgets.  Fancy his forgetting that I was at Oxford.  But we don’t get servants like him nowadays.  That chap we’ve got now is a sleepy fellow.  Sleepy! he’s——­What’s that in the road?  They’ve no business to be coming at that pace.  Who is it?  I can’t see.”

Down the middle of the dark road a dog cart was approaching at top speed.  Bee seized her father’s arm and pulled it vigorously, for Mr. Pendyce was standing stock-still in disapproval.  The dog cart passed within a foot of him and vanished, swinging round into the station.  Mr. Pendyce turned in his tracks.

“Who was that?  Disgraceful!  On Sunday, too!  The fellow must be drunk; he nearly ran over my legs.  Did you see, Bee, he nearly ran over——­”

Bee answered: 

“It was Captain Bellew, Father; I saw his face.”  “Bellew?  That drunken fellow?  I shall summons him.  Did you see, Bee, he nearly ran over my——­”

“Perhaps he’s had bad news,” said Bee.  “There’s the train going out now; I do hope he caught it!”

“Bad news!  Is that an excuse for driving over me?  You hope he caught it?  I hope he’s thrown himself out.  The ruffian!  I hope he’s killed himself.”

In this strain Mr. Pendyce continued until they reached the church.  On their way up the aisle they passed Gregory Vigil leaning forward with his elbows on the desk and his hand covering his eyes....