Stamboul and Welsley—­Mrs. Clarke and Rosamund!

The dual comparison made him at once see the truth.  Stamboul and Welsley were beautiful; each possessed an enticing quality; but the one enticed by its grandiose mystery, by its sharp contrasts of marble stability and matchboard frailty, by its melancholy silences and spaces, by its obscure peace and its dangerous passion; the other by its delightful simplicity, its noble homeliness, its dignity and charm of an old faith and a smiling unworldliness, its harmonies of gray and of green, of stone and verdure, its serenity lifted skywards by many bells.

But at the heart of Stamboul the dust lay thick, and there was dew at the heart of Welsley.

Perhaps green Elis, with its sheep-bells, the eternal voices of its pine trees, the celestial benignity of its Hermes, was more to be desired than either Stamboul or Welsley.  But for the moment Welsley was very desirable.

Dion gave his bag to an “outside porter,” and walked to the Precincts with the Archdeacon.

He found Rosamund uplifted and triumphant; Mr. Thrush had finally captivated the Dean, and had been given the “situation” which Rosamund had desired for him.  Her joy was almost ebullient.  She could talk of nothing else.  Mr. Thrush was to be installed on the following Sunday.

“Installed?” said Dion.  “Is the Archbishop coming down to conduct the ceremony?”

“No, no!  What I mean is that Mr. Thrush will walk in the procession for the first time.  Oh, I shall be so nervous!  If only he carries the wand as I’ve taught him!  I don’t know what Mr. Thrush would do without me.  He seems to depend on me for everything now, poor old gentleman.”

“I’m afraid he’ll miss you dreadfully,” said Dion.

“Miss me?  When?”

Before he could answer she said quickly: 

“Oh, by the way, Dion, while you’ve been away I’ve done something for you.”

“What is it, Rose?”

She was looking gaily mysterious, and almost cunning, but in a delightful way.

“I don’t want you to be bored during your holiday.”

“Bored!  Don’t you realize that this is an earthly Paradise for me?  You and Robin and peace after South Africa.”

She looked very shrewd.

“That’s all very well, but a man, especially a soldier man, wants sport.”

She laid a strong and happy emphasis on the last word, and then she disclosed the secret.  A brother of “the cold douche,” a gentleman farmer who had land some four miles from Welsley, and who was “a great friend” of Rosamund’s—­she had met him three times at the organist’s house—­hearing of Dion’s arrival, had written to say that he had some partridges which needed “keeping down.”  He himself was “laid by” with a bad leg, but he would be very glad if Mr. Leith would “take his chance among the birds” any day, or days, he liked while at Welsley.  The gentleman farmer could not offer much, just the ground, most of it stubble, and a decent lot of birds.