place as though she and not he were seeing it for the first
time; from the row of whitewashed pillars to the staring white windows;
from the hatchment on the plastered walls to the disfiguring gallery
along the west end.

"It is very hideous," she said, almost apologetically, "especially the
chancel; Mr. Daintree wants to have it restored, but I suppose that can't
be done at all now."

"Why can't it be done?"

"Oh, because nothing can be done unless the chancel is pulled down; that
belongs to the lay rector, and he has refused to restore it."

"Sir John Kynaston is the lay rector."

"Yes!" Vera looked a little startled; "do you know him?"

The gentleman passed his hand over his chin.

"Slightly," he answered, not looking at her.

"It is a pity he cannot be brought to see how necessary it is, for he
certainly ought to do it," continued Vera. "You see I cannot help being
interested in it because Mr. Daintree is such a good man, and has worked
so hard to get up money to begin the rest of the church. He had quite
counted upon the chancel being done, and now he is so much disappointed;
but, I beg your pardon, this cannot interest you."

"But it interests me very much. Why does not somebody put it in this
light to Sir John; he would not surely refuse?"

"My brother-in-law, Mr. Daintree, I mean, did ask him last night, and he
would not promise to do anything."

The stranger suddenly left her side and walked up the church by himself
into the chancel. He went straight up to the east end and made a minute
examination apparently of the wall; after that, he came slowly down
again, looking carefully into every corner and cranny from the
whitewashed ceiling down to the damp and uneven stone paving at his feet;
Vera thought him a very odd person, and wondered what he was thinking
about.

He came back to her and stood before her looking at her for a minute. And
then he made this most remarkable speech:

"If _you_ were to ask Sir John Kynaston this he would restore the
chancel!" he said.

For half-a-second Vera stared at him in blank amazement. Then she turned
haughtily round, and flushed hotly with angry indignation.

"There is nothing more to see in the church," she said, shortly, and
walked straight out of it.

The stranger had followed her; when they reached the churchyard he said
to her, quite humbly,

"I beg your pardon; Miss Nevill; how unlucky I am to have made you angry,
to begin with."

Vera looked at