Priscilla said she was,—­her name, that is, was Neumann-Schultz—­and got up.  She had the vaguest notion as to how Miss Schultz would behave under these trying circumstances, but imagined she would begin by getting up.  So she got up, and the sofa being a low one and her movements leisurely, Mrs. Morrison told her husband afterwards there seemed to be no end to the girl.  The girl certainly was long, and when at last unfolded and quite straightened out she towered over Mrs. Morrison, who looked up uneasily at the grave young face.  Why, Mrs. Morrison asked herself, didn’t the girl smile?  It was the duty of a Miss Schultz called upon by the vicar’s wife to smile; so profound a gravity on such an occasion was surely almost rude.  Priscilla offered her hand and hoped it was all right to do so, but still she did not smile.  “Are you Mrs. Morrison?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Morrison with an immense reserve in her voice.

Then Priscilla suggested she should sit down.  Mrs. Morrison was already doing it; and Priscilla sank on to her sofa again and wondered what she had better say next.  She wondered so much that she became lost in mazes of wonder, and there was so long a silence that Mrs. Pearce outside the door deplored an inconsiderateness that could keep her there for nothing.

“I didn’t know you had a double name,” said Mrs. Morrison, staring at Priscilla and trying to decide whether this was not a case for the application of leaflets and instant departure.  The girl was really quite offensively pretty.  She herself had been pretty—­she thanked heaven that she still was so—­but never, never pretty—­she thanked heaven again—­in this glaringly conspicuous fashion.

“My name is Ethel Maria-Theresa Neumann-Schultz,” said Priscilla, very clearly and slowly; and though she was, as we know, absolutely impervious to the steadiest staring, she did wonder whether this good lady could have seen her photograph anywhere in some paper, her stare was so very round and bright and piercing.

“What a long name,” said Mrs. Morrison.

“Yes,” said Priscilla; and as another silence seemed imminent she added, “I have two hyphens.”

“Two what?” said Mrs. Morrison, startled; and so full was her head of doubt and distrust that for one dreadful moment she thought the girl had said two husbands.  “Oh, hyphens.  Yes.  Germans have them a good deal, I believe.”

“That sounds as if we were talking about diseases,” said Priscilla, a faint smile dawning far away somewhere in the depths of her eyes.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Morrison, fidgeting.

Odd that Robin should have said nothing about the girl’s face.  Anyhow she should be kept off Netta.  Better keep her off the parish-room Tuesdays as well.  What in the world was she doing in Symford?  She was quite the sort of girl to turn the heads of silly boys.  And so unfortunate, just as Augustus Shuttleworth had taken to giving Netta little volumes of Browning.