Three minutes later she and Sir John went out of the front door together.

“Well, that is the oddest fellow I ever came across in my life,” said Eustace, fairly puzzled as soon as he was gone.  “It is my belief,” tapping his forehead significantly, “that he is a little touched here.  I don’t believe he quite knows what he is talking about.  Why, the other night he would have nothing to say to the chancel, wouldn’t even listen to me, cut me so short about it I really couldn’t venture to pursue the subject; and here he comes, ten days later, all of his own accord, and proposes to do it exactly as it ought to be done, in the best and most expensive way—­purbeck columns round the lancet windows, and all, Marion, just what I wanted; gives me absolute carte blanche about it.  I only hope he won’t take a fresh fancy into his head and change his mind again.”

“Perhaps he found he would make himself unpopular if he did not do it,” suggested his mother.

Marion held her tongue, and snipped away at her unbleached calico.

“And then, again, about old Hoggs’ cottage,” pursued Mr. Daintree.  “What on earth could make him forget where it was?  He might as well forget the way to his own house.  I really do think he must be a little gone in the upper storey, poor fellow!  Marion, what have you to say about it?”

“I have to say that if you stand chattering here all the morning, we shall never get anything done.  I want to speak to you immediately, Eustace, in the other room.”

She hurried her husband out into the study, and carefully closed the door upon them.

What then was the Rev. Eustace’s amazement to behold his wife suddenly execute a series of capers round the room, which would not have disgraced a coryphee at a Christmas pantomime, but were hardly in keeping with the demure and highly respectable bearing of the wife of the vicar of Sutton-in-the-Wold!

Mr. Daintree began to think that everybody was going mad this morning.

“My dear Marion, what on earth is the matter?”

“Oh, you dear, stupid, blunder-headed old donkey!” exclaimed his wife, finishing her pas seul in front of him, and hugging him vehemently as a finale to the entertainment.  “Do you mean to say that you don’t see it?”

“See it?  See what?” repeated the unfortunate clergyman, in mortal bewilderment, staring at her hard.

“Oh, you dear, stupid old goose! why, it’s as plain as daylight.  Can’t you guess?”

Eustace shook his head dolefully.

“Why, Sir John Kynaston has fallen in love with Vera!”

“Marion! impossible!” in an awe-struck whisper.  “What can make you imagine such a thing?”

“Why, everything—­the chancel, of course.  She must have spoken to him about it; it is to be done for her; did you not see him look at her?  And then, asking her to go down the village with him; he knows where Hoggs’ cottage is as well as you do, only he couldn’t think of anything better.”