em and
this garden," he added, with a little smile towards the Duchessa.

"Chorley Old Hall," remarked Trix. "I used to go there when I was a tiny
child. There was a man lived there, who used to terrify me out of my
wits, his eyes were so black. But I liked him, when I got over my first
fright. What has become of him?"

"He died a short time ago," said the Duchessa quietly. "Oh," said Trix
regretfully. Possibly she had contemplated a renewal of the
acquaintanceship.

"He'd been an invalid for a long time," explained the Duchessa. She was a
little, just a trifle anxious as to whether the conversation might not
prove embarrassing for Doctor Hilary. There was a feeling in the village
that the journey, which Doctor Hilary had permitted--some, indeed, said
advocated--had been entirely responsible for the death.

But Doctor Hilary was eating his dinner, apparently utterly and
completely at his ease.

"Anyhow the gardens aren't being neglected," said Father Dormer. "They've
got a new under-gardener there who is proving rather a marvel in his
line. In fact Golding confesses that he'll have to look out for his own
laurels. He's a nice looking fellow, this new man, and a cut above the
ordinary type, I should say. I used to see him in church after Mass on
Sundays at one time. But he has given up coming lately."

"Really," said the Duchessa.

Trix looked up quickly, surprised at the intonation of her voice.

"Oh, he isn't a Catholic," smiled Father Dormer. "Perhaps curiosity
brought him in the beginning, and now it has worn off."

Trix was still looking at the Duchessa. She couldn't make out the odd
intonation of her voice. It had been indifferent enough to be almost
rude. But, if it were intended for a snub, Father Dormer had evidently
not taken it as such. Yet there was a little pause on the conclusion of
his remark, almost as if Doctor Hilary and Miss Tibbutt had had the same
idea as herself. At least, that was what Trix felt the little pause to
mean. And then she was suddenly annoyed with herself for having felt it.
Of course it was quite absurd.

She looked down at her plate of clear soup. It had letters of a white
edible substance floating in it.

"I've got an A and two S's in my soup," she remarked pathetically. "I
don't think it is quite tactful of the cook."

There was an instant lowering of eyes towards soup plates, an announcing
of the various letters seen therein. Trix had an application for each,
making