“Diana, I regret to observe that your conversation lacks the flavour of respectability demanded by your present circumstances,” he remarked.  “I fear you’ll never be an ornament to any clerical household.”

“No. Pas mon metier.  Respectability isn’t in the least a sine qua non for a prima donna—­far from it!”

Stair chuckled.

“To hear you talk, no one would imagine that in reality you were the most conventional of prudes,” he flung at her.

“Oh, but I’m growing out of it,” she returned hopefully.  “Yesterday, for instance, I palled up with a perfectly strange young man.  We conversed together as though we had known each other all our lives, shared the same table for dinner—­”

“You didn’t?” broke in Joan, a trifle shocked.

Diana nodded serenely.

“Indeed I did.  And what was the reward of my misdeeds?  Why, there he was at hand to save me when the smash came!”

“Who was he?” asked Joan curiously.  “Any one from this part of the world?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” replied Diana.  “I actually never inquired to whom I was indebted for my life and the various other trifles which he rescued for me from the wreck of our compartment.  The only clue I have is the handkerchief he bound round my arm.  It’s very bluggy and it’s marked M.E.”

“M.E.,” repeated the Rector.  “Well, there must be plenty of M.E.’s in the world.  Did he get out at Craiford?”

“He didn’t,” said Diana.  “No; at present he is ‘wropt in mist’ry,’ but I feel sure we shall run up against each other again.  I told him so.”

“Did you, indeed?” Stair laughed.  “And was he pleased at the prospect?”

“Well, frankly, Pobs, I can’t say he seemed enraptured.  On the contrary, he appeared to regard it in the light of a highly improbable and quite undesirable contingency.”

“He must be lacking in appreciation,” murmured Stair mockingly, pinching her cheek as he passed her on his way to select a pipe from the array that adorned the chimney-piece.

“Are you going ‘parishing’ this morning?” inquired Diana, as she watched him fill and light his pipe.

“Yes, I promised to visit Susan Gurney—­she’s laid up with rheumatism, poor old soul.”

“Then I’ll drive you, shall I?  I suppose you’ve still got Tommy and the ralli-cart?”

“Yes,” replied Stair gravely.  “Notwithstanding diminishing tithes and increasing taxes, Tommy is still left to us.  Apparently he thrives on a penurious diet, for he is fatter than ever.”

Accordingly, half an hour later, the two set out behind the fat pony on a round of parochial visits.  Underneath the seat of the trap reposed the numerous little packages of tea and tobacco with which the Rector, whose hand was always in his pocket, rarely omitted to season his visits to the sick among his parishioners.