Mr. Harding was one, left the church. Henry Chichester and the fair,
athletic-looking curate remained. Mailing took his hat and made his way
slowly to the door. As he emerged a young man stopped him and said:

"If you please, sir, the rector would like to speak to you if you could
wait just a moment. You are Mr. Malling, I believe."

"Yes. How could you know?"

"Mr. Harding told me what you were like, sir, and that you were wearing
a tie with a large green stone in it. Begging your pardon, sir."

"I will wait," said Malling, marveling at the rector's rapid and accurate
powers of observation.

Those of the congregation who had not remained for the celebration were
quickly dispersing, but Malling now noticed that the lady with the white
lock was, like himself, waiting for some one. She stood not far from him.
She was holding a parasol, and looking down; she moved its point to and
fro on the ground. Several people greeted her. Almost as if startled she
glanced up quickly, smiled, replied. Then, as they went on, she again
looked down. There was a pucker in her brow. Her lips twitched now and
then.

Suddenly she lifted her head, turned and forced her quivering mouth to
smile. Mr. Harding had come into sight round the corner of the church.

"Ah, Mr. Malling," he said, "so you have stayed. Very good of you.
Sophia, let me introduce Mr. Malling to you--my wife, Lady Sophia."