“‘Right on my mother’s knee....’” sang the platform.

“‘Without a shirt, without a shirt,’” gagged Peter, sotto voce, and marvelled at himself.  But he felt that her smothered laughter amply rewarded him.

The song ceased in time, and the encore, which they both rigorously demanded.  And immediately she began again.

“I hope to goodness tea isn’t far off,” she said.  “By the way, you’ll have to take me to it, now, you know.  We go out of that door, and up a flight of steps, and there’s the matron’s room on the top and a visitor’s room next to it, and tea’ll be there.  It will be a fiendish squash, and I wouldn’t go if I hadn’t you to get me tea and take me away afterwards as soon as possible.”

“I’m highly privileged, I’m sure,” said Peter again, quite deliberately.  She laughed.  “You are,” she said.  “Look how you’re coming on!  Ten minutes ago you were a bored curate, and now you’re—­what are you?”

Peter hesitated perceptibly.  He felt he might say many things.  Then he said “A trapped padre,” and they both laughed.

“Thank goodness you’re not sentimental, anyway,” she said.  “Nor’s your friend; but the matron is.  I know her sort.  Look at them.”

Peter looked.  Donovan appeared still entirely at his ease, but he was watching Peter, who realised why he had been made to look.  He brazened it out, smiled back at him, and turned perfectly deliberately to his companion.

“Julie,” he said, “don’t look over there any more, for goodness’ sake, or we’ll have Donovan here.  And if he comes he’ll sail in and take you to tea without a word.  I know him.  He’s got an unfair advantage over me.  I’m just waking up, and he’s been awake for years.  Please give me a chance.”

She leaned, back and regarded him humorously.  “You’re not doing so badly,” she said, “I don’t know that a man has ever called me ‘Julie’ before in the first quarter of an hour.  Do you know that, Solomon?”

“It’s your fault, I’ve never been introduced, and I must call you something, so why not the name your friend called you?  Julie’s very pretty and suits you.  Somehow I couldn’t call you ‘Miss’ anything, though it may be convenient to know the rest.  Do you think you could call me the Rev. Peter Graham?”

“I couldn’t,” she confessed, slightly more solemnly.  “Queer, isn’t it?  But don’t, talk about it:  it isn’t lucky.  I shall call you Solomon for ever now.  And you can only call me Miss Gamelyn when you’ve got to.  See?”

“But why in the world ‘Solomon’?  It doesn’t fit me a bit.”

“Oh,” she said, “it does, but don’t worry why.  Perhaps because, as the old man said to the vicar when he heard of Solomon’s wives, you are a highly privileged Christian.  You can’t deny that, since you’ve said it twice.  Praises be, here is tea.  Come on; come on, Tommy.  Oh, Tommy, this is the Very Reverend Peter Graham.  Mr. Graham, this is one Raynard, commonly known as Tommy, my half-section, so try to be polite.”