his quick-witted mother heard it with her eyes.

"They will come to call on me," said Mrs Proctor, with fun dancing in
her bright old eyes. "I'll tell you all about them, and you needn't be
afraid of the servants. Trust to me, my dear--I'll find them out. And
now, if you wish to take a walk, or go out visiting, don't let me detain
you, Morley. I shouldn't wonder but there's something in the papers I
would like to see--or I even might close my eyes for a few minutes: the
afternoon is always a drowsy time with me. When I was in Devonshire, you
know, no one minded what I did. You had better refresh yourself with a
nice walk, my dear boy."

The Rector got up well pleased. The alacrity with which he left the
room, however, did not correspond with the horror-stricken and helpless
expression of his face, when, after walking very smartly all round the
Rectory garden, he paused with his hand on the gate, doubtful whether to
retreat into his study, or boldly to face that world which was plotting
against him. The question was a profoundly serious one to Mr Proctor. He
did not feel by any means sure that he was a free agent, or could assert
the ordinary rights of an Englishman, in this most unexpected dilemma.
How could he tell how much or how little was necessary to prove that a
man had "committed himself"? For anything he could tell, somebody might
be calculating upon him as her lover, and settling his future life for
him. The Rector was not vain--he did not think himself an Adonis; he
did not understand anything about the matter, which indeed was beneath
the consideration of a Fellow of All-Souls. But have not women been
incomprehensible since ever there was in this world a pen with sufficient
command of words to call them so? And is it not certain that, whether
it may be to their advantage or disadvantage, every soul of them is
plotting to marry somebody? Mr Proctor recalled in dim but frightful
reminiscences stories which had dropped upon his ear at various times
of his life. Never was there a man, however ugly, disagreeable, or
penniless, but he could tell of a narrow escape he had, some time
or other. The Rector recollected and trembled. No woman was ever
so dismayed by the persecutions of a lover, as was this helpless
middle-aged gentleman under the conviction that Lucy Wodehouse meant
to marry him. The remembrance of the curate of St Roque's gave him no
comfort: her sweet youth, so totally unlike his sober age, did not
st