Just then a young clergyman crossed the room toward them.  He was a stout young man, with reddish hair and a reddish face.  His plump cheeks, no less than his well-filled waistcoat, showed that the Rev. Mr. Rimmon was no anchoret.

“Ah, my dear Mrs. Nailor, so glad to see you!  How well you look!  I haven’t seen you since that charming evening at Mrs. Creamer’s.”

“Do you call that charming?  What did you think of the dinner?” asked Mrs. Nailor, dryly.

He laughed, and, with a glance around, lowered his voice.

“Well, the champagne was execrable after the first round.  Didn’t you notice that?  You didn’t notice it?  Oh, you are too amiable to admit it.  I am sure you noticed it, for no one in town has such champagne as you.”

He licked his lips with reminiscent satisfaction.

“No, I assure you, I am not flattering you.  One of my cloth!  How dare you charge me with it!” he laughed.  “I have said as much to Mrs. Yorke.  You ask her if I haven’t.”

“How is your uncle’s health?” inquired Mrs. Nailor.

The young man glanced at her, and the glance appeared to satisfy him.

“Robust isn’t the word for it.  He bids fair to rival the patriarchs in more than his piety.”

Mrs. Nailor smiled.  “You don’t appear as happy as a dutiful nephew might.”

“But he is so good—­so pious.  Why should I wish to withhold him from the joys for which he is so ripe?”

Mrs. Nailor laughed.

“You are a sinner,” she declared.

“We are all miserable sinners,” he replied.  “Have you seen the Yorkes lately?”

“No; but I’ll be bound you have.”

“What do you think of the story about old Lancaster?”

“Oh, I think she’ll marry him if mamma can arrange it.”

“‘Children, obey your parents,’” quoted Mr. Rimmon, with a little smirk as he sidled away.

“He is one of our rising young clergymen, nephew of the noted Dr. Little,” explained Mrs. Nailor.  “You know of him, of course?  A good deal better man than his nephew.”  This under her breath.  “He is his uncle’s assistant and is waiting to step into his shoes.  He wants to marry your friend, Alice Yorke.  He is sure of his uncle’s church if flattery can secure it.”

Just then several ladies passed near them, and Mrs. Nailor, seeing an opportunity to impart further knowledge, with a slight nod moved off to scatter her information and inquiries, and Keith, having made his adieus to Mrs. Wentworth, withdrew.  He was not in a happy frame of mind over what he had heard.

The next visit that Keith paid required more thought and preparation than that to the Wentworth house.  He had thought of it, had dreamed of it, for years.  He was seized with a sort of nervousness when he found himself actually on the avenue, in sight of the large brown-stone mansion which he knew must be the abode of Miss Alice Yorke.

He never forgot the least detail of his visit, from the shining brass rail of the outside steps and the pompous little hard-eyed servant in a striped waistcoat and brass buttons, who looked at him insolently as he went in, to the same servant as he bowed to him obsequiously as he came out.  He never forgot Alice Yorke’s first appearance in the radiance of girlhood, or Mrs. Yorke’s affable imperviousness, that baffled him utterly.