“That may be,” said the lady, with the ample smile of conscious condescension; “for he has certainly not omitted to let his light shine before men.  But that is not telling us who or what he was before he came here, or how he made his money.”

Then Hugh Woodgate gave the half boyish, half bashful laugh with which he was wont to preface his most candid sayings.

“And I don’t think it’s any business of ours,” he said.

Morna went a trifle browner than she naturally was; her husband said so little that what he did say was often almost painfully to the point; and now Mrs. Venables had turned from him to her, with a smile which the young wife disliked, for it called attention to the vicar’s discourtesy while it appealed to herself for prettier manners and better sense.  It was a moment requiring some little tact, but Mrs. Woodgate was just equal to it.

“Hugh, how rude of you!” she exclaimed, with only the suspicion of a smile.  “You forget that it’s your duty to be friendly with everybody; there’s no such obligation on anybody else.”

“I should be friendly with Mr. Steel,” said Hugh, “duty or no duty, after what he has done for the parish.”

And his pleasant honest face and smile did away with the necessity for a set apology.

“I must say,” added his wife to her visitor, “that it’s the same with me, you know.”

There was a pause.

“Then you intend to call upon her?” said Mrs. Venables, coming with directness to an obviously premeditated point.

“I do—­I must—­it is so different with us,” said the vicar’s young wife, with her pretty brown blush.

“Certainly,” added the vicar himself, with dogmatic emphasis.

Mrs. Venables did not look at him, but she looked the harder at Morna instead.

“Well,” said she, “I suppose you are right.  In your position—­yes—­your position is quite different!” And the sudden, half accidental turn of her sentence put Mrs. Venables on good terms with herself once more; and so she rose all smiles and velvet.  “No, not even half a cup; but it was really quite delicious; and I hope you’ll come and see me soon, and tell me all about her.  At his age!” she whispered as she went.  “At sixty-five—­if he’s a day!”

A stranger would have imagined that this lady had quite decided not to call upon the newcomer herself; even Mrs. Woodgate was uncertain of her neighbor’s intention as the latter’s wheels ground the Vicarage drive once more, and she and her husband were left alone.

“It will depend upon the county,” said she; “and Mrs. Venables is not the county pure and simple, she’s half Northborough still, and she’ll take her cue from the Invernesses and the Uniackes.  But I do believe she’s been round the whole country-side, getting people to say they won’t call; as if it mattered to a man like Mr. Steel, or any woman he is likely to have chosen.  Still, it is mysterious, isn’t it?