Somebody--I forget the name--a native of the town, also that she was a
great favourite there and was loved by everyone, rich and poor, and
that she had been a very hard worker ever since the war began, and had
inspired all the women in the place to work.

"And who," I asked, "was the fellow who brought her in to lunch--a
relative or a lover?"

"Oh, no, no relation and certainly not a lover. I doubt if she would
have him if he wanted her, in spite of his position."

"I don't wonder at that--a perfect clown! And who is he?"

"Oh, didn't you know! Sir Ranulph Damarell."

"Good Lord!" I gasped. "That your great man--lord of the manor and what
not! He may bear the name, but I'm certain he's not a descendant of the
Sir Ranulph whose monument is in your church."

"Oh, yes, he is," she replied. "I believe there has never been a break
in the line from father to son since that man's day. They were all
knights in the old time, but for the last two centuries or so have been
baronets."

"Good Lord!" I exclaimed again. "And please tell me what is he----what
does he do? What is his distinction?"

"His distinction for me," she smilingly replied, "is that he prefers
my house to have his luncheon in after Sunday morning service. He knows
where he can get good cooking. And as a rule he invites some friend in