“Strawberry,” she mysteriously whispered to Maggie; and Maggie disappeared, bearing the tray and its contents.

“And how is your sister?  It is quite a long time since she was down here,” Mrs. Baines went on to Miss Chetwynd, after whispering “strawberry.”

The remark was merely in the way of small-talk—­for the hostess felt a certain unwilling hesitation to approach the topic of daughters—­but it happened to suit the social purpose of Miss Chetwynd to a nicety.  Miss Chetwynd was a vessel brimming with great tidings.

“She is very well, thank you,” said Miss Chetwynd, and her expression grew exceedingly vivacious.  Her face glowed with pride as she added, “Of course everything is changed now.”

“Indeed?” murmured Mrs. Baines, with polite curiosity.

“Yes,” said Miss Chetwynd.  “You’ve not heard?”

“No,” said Mrs. Baines.  Miss Chetwynd knew that she had not heard.

“About Elizabeth’s engagement?  To the Reverend Archibald Jones?”

It is the fact that Mrs. Baines was taken aback.  She did nothing indiscreet; she did not give vent to her excusable amazement that the elder Miss Chetwynd should be engaged to any one at all, as some women would have done in the stress of the moment.  She kept her presence of mind.

“This is really most interesting!” said she.

It was.  For Archibald Jones was one of the idols of the Wesleyan Methodist Connexion, a special preacher famous throughout England.  At ‘Anniversaries’ and ‘Trust sermons,’ Archibald Jones had probably no rival.  His Christian name helped him; it was a luscious, resounding mouthful for admirers.  He was not an itinerant minister, migrating every three years.  His function was to direct the affairs of the ‘Book Room,’ the publishing department of the Connexion.  He lived in London, and shot out into the provinces at week-ends, preaching on Sundays and giving a lecture, tinctured with bookishness, ‘in the chapel’ on Monday evenings.  In every town he visited there was competition for the privilege of entertaining him.  He had zeal, indefatigable energy, and a breezy wit.  He was a widower of fifty, and his wife had been dead for twenty years.  It had seemed as if women were not for this bright star.  And here Elizabeth Chetwynd, who had left the Five Towns a quarter of a century before at the age of twenty, had caught him!  Austere, moustached, formidable, desiccated, she must have done it with her powerful intellect!  It must be a union of intellects!  He had been impressed by hers, and she by his, and then their intellects had kissed.  Within a week fifty thousand women in forty counties had pictured to themselves this osculation of intellects, and shrugged their shoulders, and decided once more that men were incomprehensible.  These great ones in London, falling in love like the rest!  But no!  Love was a ribald and voluptuous word to use in such a matter as this.  It was generally felt that the Reverend Archibald Jones and Miss Chetwynd the elder would lift marriage to what would now be termed an astral plane.