“Oh, my dear!” said Mrs. Roughsedge, suddenly—­“here comes the Vicar.  Do you know, it’s so unlucky—­and so strange!—­but he has certainly taken a dislike to Miss Mallory—­I believe it was because he had hoped some Christian Socialist friends of his would have taken Beechcote, and he was disappointed to find it let to some one with what he calls ’silly Tory notions’ and no particular ideas about Church matters.  Now there’s a regular fuss—­something about the Book Club.  I don’t understand—­”

The Vicar advanced toward them.  He came along at a great pace, his lean figure closely sheathed in his long clerical coat, his face a little frowning and set.

At the sight of Mrs. Roughsedge he drew up, and greeted the mother and son.

“May I have a few words with you?” he asked Mrs. Roughsedge, as he turned back with them toward the Beechcote lane.  “I don’t know whether you are acquainted, Mrs. Roughsedge, with what has just happened in the Book Club, to which we both belong?”

The Book Club was a village institution of some antiquity.  It embraced some ten families, who drew up their Mudie lists in common and sent the books from house to house.  The Vicar and Dr. Roughsedge had been till now mainly responsible for these lists—­so far, at least, as “serious books” were concerned, the ladies being allowed the chief voice in the novels.

Mrs. Roughsedge, a little fluttered, asked for information.

“Miss Mallory has recommended two books which, in my opinion, should not be circulated among us,” said the Vicar.  “I have protested—­in vain.  Miss Mallory maintains her recommendation.  I propose, therefore, to withdraw from the Club.”

“Are they improper?” cried Mrs. Roughsedge, much distressed.  Captain Roughsedge threw an angry look first at his mother and then at the Vicar.

“Not in the usual sense,” said the Vicar, stiffly—­“but highly improper for the reading of Christian people.  One is by a Unitarian, and the other reproduces some of the worst speculations of an infidel German theology.  I pointed out the nature of the books to Miss Mallory.  She replied that they were both by authors whom her father liked.  I regretted it.  Then she fired up, refused to withdraw the names, and offered to resign.  Miss Mallory’s subscription to the Club is, however, much larger than mine. I shall therefore resign—­protesting, of course, against the reason which induces me to take this course.”

“What’s wrong with the books?” asked Hugh Roughsedge.

The Vicar drew himself up.

“I have given my reasons.”

“Why, you see that kind of thing in every newspaper,” said Roughsedge, bluntly.

“All the more reason why I should endeavor to keep my parish free from it,” was the Vicar’s resolute reply.  “However, there is no more to be said.  I wished Mrs. Roughsedge to understand what had happened—­that is all.”

He paused, and offered a limp hand in good-bye.