On the second afternoon of his stay he was standing in the Close, bathed now in yellow sunlight, when he saw coming towards him a familiar figure.  One glance was enough to assure him that this was the Rev. William Lasher, once Vicar of Clinton St. Mary, now Canon of Polchester Cathedral.  Mr. Lasher it was, and Mr. Lasher the same as he had ever been.  He was walking with his old energetic stride, his head up, his black overcoat flapping behind him, his eyes sharply investigating in and out and all round him.  He saw Seymour, but did not recognise him, and would have passed on.

“You don’t know me?” said Seymour, holding out his hand.

“I beg your pardon, I——­” said Canon Lasher.

“Seymour—­Hugh Seymour—­whom you were once kind enough to look after at Clinton St. Mary.”

“Why!  Fancy!  Indeed.  My dear boy.  My dear boy!” Mr. Lasher was immensely cordial in exactly his old, healthy, direct manner.  He insisted that Seymour should come with him and drink a cup of tea.  Mrs. Lasher would be delighted.  They had often wondered....  Only the other day Mrs. Lasher was saying....  “And you’re one of our novelists, I hear,” said Canon Lasher in exactly the tone that he would have used had Seymour taken to tight-rope walking at the Halls.

“Oh, no!” said Seymour, laughing, “that’s another man of my name.  I’m at the Bar.”

“Ah,” said the Canon, greatly relieved, “that’s good!  That’s good!  Very good indeed!”

Mrs. Lasher was, of course, immensely surprised.  “Why!  Fancy!  And it was only yesterday!  Whoever would have expected!  I never was more astonished!  And tea just ready!  How fortunate!  Just fancy you meeting the Canon!”

The Canon seemed, to Seymour, greatly mellowed by comfort and prosperity; there was even the possibility of corpulence in the not distant future.  He was, indeed, a proper Canon.

“And who,” said Seymour, “has Clinton St. Mary now?”

“One of the Trenchards,” said Mr. Lasher.  “As you know, a very famous old Glebeshire family.  There are some younger cousins of the Garth Trenchards, I believe.  You know of the Trenchards of Garth?  No?  Ah, very delightful people.  You should know them.  Yes, Jim Trenchard, the man at Clinton, is a few years senior to myself.  He was priest when I was deacon in—­let me see—­dear me, how the years fly—­in—­’pon my word, how time goes!”

All of which gave Seymour to understand that the Rev. James Trenchard was a failure in life, although a good enough fellow.  Then it was that suddenly, in the heart of that warm and cosy drawing-room, Hugh Seymour was, sharply, as though by a douche of cold water, awakened to the fact that he must see Clinton St. Mary again.  It appeared to him, now, with its lanes, its hedges, the village green, the moor, the Borhaze Road, the pirates, yes, and the Scarecrow.  It came there, across the Canon’s sumptuous Turkey carpet, and demanded his presence.