“Oh, he is still in the neighbourhood,”—­said Maryllia, indifferently—­“He works for Sir Morton Pippitt, and I believe has found a home at Badsworth.  His accounts are not yet all handed in to my solicitors.  But I have a new agent now,—­a Mr. Stanways—­he is just married to quite a nice young woman,—­and he has already begun work.  Mr. Stanways has splendid recommendations—­so that will be all right.”

“No doubt—­so far as Mr. Stanways himself is concerned it will be all right,”—­rejoined Cicely, musingly—­“But if, as you say, the man Oliver Leach cursed you, it isn’t pleasant to think he is hanging around here.”

“He isn’t hanging round anywhere,”—­declared Maryllia, easily—­“He is out of this beat altogether.  He cursed me certainly,—­but he was in a temper,—­and I should say that curses come naturally to him.  But, as the clergyman was present at the time, the curse couldn’t take any effect.”  She laughed.  “You know Satan always runs away from the Church.”

“Who is the clergyman, and what is he like?” asked Cicely.

“He’s not at all disagreeable”—­answered Maryllia, carelessly—­ “Rather stiff perhaps and old-fashioned,—­but he seems to be a great favourite with all his parishioners.  His name is John Walden.  He has restored the church here, quite at his own expense, and according to the early original design.  It is really quite wonderful.  When I was a child here, I only remember it as a ruin, but now people come from far and near to see it.  It will please you immensely.”

“But you don’t go to it,” observed Cicely, suggestively.

“No.  I haven’t attended a service there as yet.  But I don’t say I never will attend one.  That will depend on circumstances.”

“I remember you always hated parsons,” said Cicely, thoughtfully.

Maryllia laughed.

“Yes, I always did!”

“And you always will, I suppose?”

“Well, I expect I shall have to tolerate Mr. Walden,”—­Maryllia answered lightly,—­“Because he’s really my nearest neighbour.  But he’s not so bad as most of his class.”

“I daresay he’s a better type of man than Lord Roxmouth,” said Cicely.  “By the way, Maryllia, that highly distinguished nobleman has spread about a report that you are ‘peculiar,’ simply because you won’t marry him?  The very nuns at the Convent have heard this, and it does make me so angry!  For when people get hold of the word ‘peculiar,’ it is made to mean several things.”

“I know!” and for a moment Maryllia’s fair brows clouded with a shadow of perplexity and annoyance—­“It is a word that may pass for madness, badness, or any form of social undesirability.  But I don’t mind!  I’m quite aware that Roxmouth, if he cannot marry me, will slander me.  It’s a way some modern men have of covering their own rejection and defeat.  The woman in question is branded through the ‘smart set’ as ‘peculiar,’ ‘difficult,’ ’impossible to deal with’—­ oh yes!—­I know it all!  But I’m prepared for it—­and just to forestall Roxmouth a little, I’m going to have a few people down here by way of witnesses to my ‘-peculiar’ mode of life.  Then they can go back to London and talk.”