air contributed most of
the conversation, the former proving himself a charming guest, and it was
evident that the two men had taken a great liking to each other. It
would have been a difficult subject indeed who did not feel attracted by
Alan Stair; he was so unconventionally frank and sincere, brimming over
with humour, and he regarded every man as his friend until he had proved
him otherwise--and even then he was disposed to think that the fault must
lie somewhere in himself.

"I'm not surprised that your church was so full on Sunday," Errington
told him, "now that I've met you. If the Church of England clergy, as a
whole, were as human as you are, you would have fewer offshoots from your
Established Church. I always think"--reminiscently--"that that is where
the strength of the Roman Catholic _padre_ lies--in his intense
_humanness_."

The Sector looked up in surprise.

"Then you're not a member of our Church?" he asked.

For a moment Errington looked embarrassed, as though he had said more
than he wished to.

"Oh, I was merely comparing the two," he replied evasively. "I have
lived abroad a good bit, you know."

"Ah! That explains it, then," said Stair. "You've caught some little
foreign turns of speech. Several times I've wondered if you were
entirely English."

Errington's face, as he turned to reply, wore that politely blank
expression which Diana had encountered more than once when conversing
with him--always should she chance to touch on any subject the natural
answer to which might have revealed something of the man's private life.

"Oh," he answered the Rector lightly, "I believe there's a dash of
foreign blood in my veins, but I've a right to call myself an Englishman."

After dinner, while the two men had their smoke, Diana, heedless of
Joan's common-sense remonstrance on the score of dew-drenched grass,
flung on a cloak and wandered restlessly out into the moonlit garden.
She felt that it would be an utter impossibility to sit still, waiting
until the men came into the drawing-room, and she paced slowly backwards
and forwards across the lawn, a slight, shadowy figure in the patch of
silver light.

Presently she saw the French window of the dining-room open, and Max
Errington step across the threshold and come swiftly over the lawn
towards her.

"I see you are bent on courting rheumatic fever--to say nothing of a sore
throat," he said quietly, "and I've come to take you indoors."

Di