“When?” asked Alicia, staring out of the window at the crows in a tamarind tree.

“Last Saturday.  He said he had promised some friends of his the pleasure of meeting me.  They had besieged him, he said, and they were his best friends, on all his committees.”

“Only ladies?” The crows, with a shriek of defiance at nothing in particular, having flown away, Miss Livingstone transferred her attention.

“Bless me, yes.  What Archdeacon has dear men friends!  And lesquelles pense-tu, mon Dieu!”

“Lesquelles?”

“Mrs. Jack Forrester, Mrs. Fitz—­what you may call him up on the frontier, the Brigadier gentleman—­Lady Dolly!”

“You were well chaperoned.”

“And—­my dear—­he didn’t ask a single Sister!” Hilda turned upon her a face which appeared still to glow with the stimulus of the Archdiaconal function.  “And—­it was wicked considering the occasion—­I dropped the character.  I let myself out!”

“You didn’t shock the Archdeacon?”

“Not in the least.  But, my dear love, did you ever permit yourself the reflection that the Venerable Gambell is a bachelor?”

“Hilda, you shall not!  We all love him—­you shall not lead him astray!”

“You would not think of—­the altar—?”

Miss Livingstone’s pale small smile fell like a snow-flake upon Hilda’s mood and was swallowed up.  “You are very preposterous,” she said.  “Go on.  You always amuse one.”  Then as if Hilda’s going on were precisely the thing she could not quite endure, she said quickly, “The Coromandel is telegraphed from Colombo to-day.”

“Ah!”, said Hilda.

“He leaves for Madras to-morrow.  The thing is to take place there, you know.”

“Then nothing but shipwreck can save him.”

“Nothing but—­what a horrible idea!  Don’t you think they may be happy?  I really think they may.”

“There is not one of the elements that give people, when they commit the paramount stupidity of marrying, reason to hope that they may not be miserable.  Not one.  If he were a strong man I should pity him less.  But he’s not.  He’s immensely dependent on his tastes, his friends, his circumstances.”

Alicia looked at Hilda; her glance betrayed an attention caught upon an accidental phrase.  She did not repeat it, she turned it over in her mind.

“You are thinking,” Hilda said accusingly.  “What are you thinking about?”

“Oh, nothing.  I saw Stephen yesterday, I thought him looking rather wretched.”

A shadow of grave consideration winged itself across Hilda’s eyes.

“He works so much too hard,” she said.  “It is an appalling waste.  But he will offer himself up.”

Alicia looked unsatisfied.  “He brought Mr. Lappe to tea,” Miss Howe said.

The shadow went.  “Should you think Brother Lappe,” she demanded, “specially fitted for the cure of souls?  Never, never, could I allow the process of my regeneration to come through Brother Lappe.  He has such a little nose, and such wide pink cheeks, and such fat, sloping shoulders.  Dear succulent Brother Lappe!”