“Do you think you could possibly take a note for me to Miss Leighton this morning—­when you go to see old Frant?”

“Old Frant” was a labourer on the point of death to whom the vicar was ministering.

He pricked up his ears.

“Great End’s hardly in old Frant’s direction.”

Camouflage, of course.  Miss Shenstone understood perfectly.

“It won’t take you far out of your way.  I want Miss Leighton to send those two girls to the Armistice dance to-night if they’d like to come.  Lady Alicia writes that several of her maids are down with the flu, and she asks me to give away two or three more tickets.”

“Why doesn’t Lady Alicia let the servants manage the thing themselves when she gives them a party? They ought to invite.  I wouldn’t be bossed if I were they,” said the vicar, with vivacity.

“She’s so particular about character, dear.”

“So would they be.  She hasn’t been so very successful in her own case.”

For the Shepherds’ eldest daughter had just been figuring in a divorce case to the distress of the Shepherds’ neighbours.

Miss Shenstone showed patience.

“I’ll have the note ready directly.”

And when it was ready, the vicar took it like a lamb.  He walked first to Great End, meditating as he went on Miss Henderson’s engagement.  He had foreseen it, of course, since the day of the Millsborough “rally.”  A fine fellow, no doubt—­with the great advantage of khaki.  But it was to be hoped we were not going to be altogether overrun with Americans—­carrying off English women.

At the gate of the farm stood a cart into which two young calves had just been packed.  Hastings was driving it, and Rachel Henderson, who had just adjusted the net over the fidgety frightened creatures, was talking to him.

She greeted Shenstone rather shyly.  It was quite true that in the early stages of her acquaintance with Ellesborough she had amused herself a good deal with the vicar.  And in his note of congratulation to her on her engagement, she had detected just the slightest touch of reproach.

“I wish I had guessed it sooner.”  That meant, perhaps—­“Why did you make a fool of me?”

Meanwhile Miss Shenstone’s note was duly delivered, and Rachel, holding it in her hand, opened the wicket gate.

“Won’t you come in?”

“Oh, no, I mustn’t waste your time,” said the vicar, with dignity.  “Perhaps you’ll give me a verbal answer.”

Rachel opened the note, and the vicar was puzzled by the look which crossed her face as she read it.  It was a look of relief—­as though something fitted in.

“Very kind of Lady Alicia.  Of course the girls shall come.  They will be delighted.  You really won’t come in?  Then I’ll walk to the road with you.”

What was the change in her?  The vicar perceived something indefinable; and before they had walked half the distance to the road he had forgotten his own grievance.  She looked ill.  Janet Leighton, meeting him in the village a few days before, had talked of her partner as “done up.”  Was it the excitement of falling in love?—­combined perhaps with the worry of leaving her work and the career just begun?