“For Heaven’s sake,” says Algy, gravely, putting back his shoulders and throwing out his chest, as he draws on a pair of exact gray gloves, “do not let us make ourselves to stink in the nostrils of the inhabitants by any eccentricities of conduct, on this our first introduction to them.  If we consulted our own comfort, there is no doubt that we should reduce our toilets by a good many more articles than a bonnet—­in fact—­” (with an air of reflection), “I shudder to think where we should stop!”

We are in church now.  I have run the gantlet of the observation of all the parishioners, and have been unable to look calmly unaware of it; on the contrary, have grown consciously rosy red, and have walked over hastily between the open sittings.  But now I have reached the shelter of our own seat, near the top of the church, with all the gay bonnets behind me, and only the pulpit, the spread-eagle reading-desk, and the gaudy stained window in front.  As soon as I am established—­almost sooner, perhaps—­I turn my eyes in search of Mr. Musgrave, I know perfectly where to look for him, as he drew a plan of Tempest church and the relative position of our sittings, with the point of his stick on the gravel in the gardens close to the Zwinger at Dresden, while we sat under the trees by the little pool, feeding the pert sparrows and the intimate cock-chaffinch that resort thither.  He is not there!

Barbara may be crowned with any abomination, in the way of a bonnet, that ever entered into the grotesque imagination of a milliner to conceive—­coal-scuttle, cottage, spoon:—­for all that it matters.  The organ strikes up, a file of chorister-boys in dirty surplices—­Tempest is a more pretentious church than ours—­and a brace of clergy enter.  All through the Confession I gape about with vacant inattention—­at the grimy whiteness of the choir; at the back of the organist’s head; at the parson, a mealy-mouthed fledgling, who, with his finger on his place in the prayer to prevent his losing it, is taking a stealthy inventory of my charms.

Suddenly I hear the door, which has been for some time silent, creak again in opening.  Footsteps sound along the aisle.  I look up.  Yes, it is he! walking as quickly and noiselessly as he can, and looking rather ashamed of himself, while patches of red, blue, and golden light, from the east window, dance on his Sunday coat and on the smooth darkness of his hair.  I glance at Barbara, to give her notice of the approach of her destiny, but my glance is lost.  Barbara’s stooped head is hidden by her hands, and her pure thoughts are away with God.  As a pis aller, I look at Algy.  No absorption in prayer on his part baffles me.  He is leaning his elbow on his knee, and wearily biting the top of his prayer-book.  He returns my look by another, which, though wordless, is eloquent.  It says, in raised eyebrow and drooped mouth, “Is that all?  I do not think much of him?”