"Who knows?" said the Rector, with a smile of indulgent affection. "There
may be great literary capacity lying dormant in Jem. The worst of a diary
is that one may come to look at it in after years, when one finds a very
different story has been written from what one intended to write."

"Oh," said Dora, lightly skipping over the chasm of gravity, "that is
Providence. We must blame Providence for these little _contretemps_. Some
one must be blamed, and Providence obviously does not mind."

Jem laughed--somewhat lamely; but still it was a laugh. Supper was
despatched somehow--as last meals are. Some of us never forget the
flavour of those cups of tea gulped down in the gorgeous steamer-saloon
while the stewards get the hand luggage on board. It was a late meal on
Sunday evening at the Rectory, and the servants soon followed their
betters into the drawing-room for prayers.

Then the Rector lighted his last cigarette, and Mrs. Glynde began to show
symptoms of a patch of pink in either cheek.

At last Jem rose--awkwardly--in the midst of a sally from Dora, who
seemed afraid to stop speaking.

"Must be going," he said; and he shook hands with the Rector.

Mrs. Glynde, with nervous deliberation, kissed him and squeezed his hand
jerkily.

"Dora--will open the door for you," she said, with an apprehensive glance
towards her husband, who, however, showed no inclination to move from his