Sir Beverley before they had been married
two years."

"Oh!" Avery emerged from her vagueness and turned towards him. "Lady
Evesham was Italian, was she? That accounts for his appearance, doesn't
it? That air of the old Roman patrician about him; you must have
noticed it?"

"He's handsome enough," admitted Tudor.

"Oh, very handsome," said Avery. "I should say that for that type his
face was almost faultless. I wondered where he got it from. Sir Beverley
is patrician too, but in a different way." She stopped to bow to a tall,
gaunt lady at the side of the road. "That is Miss Whalley. Didn't you see
her? I expect she has just come from the Vicarage. She was going to
discuss the scheme for the Christmas decorations with the Vicar."

"She's good at scheming," growled Tudor.

Avery became silent again. At the Vicarage gates however very suddenly
and sweetly she spoke. "Dr. Tudor, forgive me,--but isn't it rather a
pity to let oneself get intolerant? It does spoil life so."

He looked at her. "There's not much in my life that could spoil," he
said gloomily.

She laughed a little, but not derisively. "But there's always something,
isn't there? Have you no sense of humour?"

He pulled up at the Vicarage gates. "I have a sense of the ridiculous,"
he said bluntly. "And I detest it in the person of Miss Whalley."

"I believe you detest a good many people," Avery said, as she descended.

He laughed himself at that. "But I am capable of appreciating the few,"
he said. "Mind the step! And don't trouble to wait for me! I've got to
tie this animal up."

He stopped to do so, and Avery opened the gate and walked slowly
up the path.

At the porch she paused to await him, and turned her face for a moment to
the darkening sky. But the Star of Hope was veiled.

CHAPTER XII

A PAIR OF GLOVES

"Piers! Where the devil are you, Piers?"

There was loud exasperation in the query as Sir Beverley halted in the
doorway of his grandson's bedroom.

There was a moment's pause; then Victor the valet came quickly forward.

"But, _Monsieur Pierre_, he bathe himself," he explained, with beady eyes
running over the gaunt old figure in the entrance.

Sir Beverley growled at him inarticulately and turned away.

A moment later he was beating a rousing tattoo on the bathroom-door.
"Piers! Let me in! Do you hear? Let me in!"

The vigorous splashing within came to a sudden stop. "That you, sir?"
called Piers.

"Of course it's m