“Is it?” said Dick.  “Then why does it run round those two consumptive little pillars?  I tell you it’s tired of standing up.  It’s going to sit down.  Look here”—­Dick tore at the stucco with his knife, and caught the clamp as it fell—­“that clamp was only put in the stucco.  It never reached the stone or the wood, whichever the little kennel is made of.  You ought to be thankful it did not drop on one of the children, or on your own head.  It would have knocked all the texts out of it for some time to come.”

Mr. Gresley did not look very grateful as he led the way to his study.

“I was lunching with the Bishop to-day,” said Dick, “and Dr. Brown was there.  He told us about the trouble here.  He said the little chap Regie was going on like a house on fire.  The Bishop told me to ask after him particularly.”

“He is wonderfully better every day,” said Mr. Gresley, softening.  “How kind of the Bishop to send you to inquire.  Not having children himself, I should never have thought—­”

“No,” said Dick, “you wouldn’t.  Do you remember when we were at Cheam, and Ogilvy’s marked sovereign was found in the pocket of my flannel trousers.  You were the only one of the boys, you and that sneak Field, who was not sure I might not have taken it.  You said it looked awfully bad, and so it did.”

“No one was gladder than I was when it was cleared up,” said Mr. Gresley.

“No,” said Dick; “but we don’t care much what any one thinks when it’s cleared up.  It’s before that matters.  Is Hester in?  I’ve two notes for her.  One from Brown, and one from the Bishop, and my orders are to take her back with me.  That is why the Bishop sent the carriage.”

“I am afraid Hester will hardly care to leave us at present,” said Mr. Gresley.  “My wife is on her sofa, and Regie is still very weak.  He has taken one of those unaccountable fancies of children for her, and can hardly bear her out of his sight.”

“The Bishop has taken another of those unaccountable fancies for her,” said Dick, looking full at Mr. Gresley in an unpleasant manner.  “I’m not one that holds that parsons should have their own way in everything.  I’ve seen too much of missionaries.  I just shove out curates and vicars and all that small fry if they get in my way.  But when they break out in buttons and gaiters, by Jove!  I knock under to them—­at least, I do to men like the Bishop.  He knows a thing or two.  He has told me not to come back without Hester, and I’m not going to.  Ah! there she is in the garden.”  Dick’s large back had been turned towards the window, but he had seen the reflection of a passing figure in the glass of a framed testimonial which occupied a prominent place on the study wall, and he at once marched out into the garden and presented the letters to Hester.

Hester was bewildered at the thought of leaving Warpington, into which she seemed to have grown like a Buddhist into his tree.  She was reluctant, would think it over, etc.  But Dick, after one glance at her strained face, was obdurate.  He would hear no reason.  He would not go away.  She and Fraeulein nervously cast a few clothes into a box, Fraeulein so excited by the apparition of a young man, and a possible love affair, that she could hardly fold Hester’s tea-gowns.