were now enjoying their claret and conversation in a comfortable
semicircle in front of Miss Wendover's roomy hearth.

The conversation was for the most part strictly local, Colonel Wendover
and Mr. Hildrop Havenant leading, and the Vicar a good second; but now
and then there was a brief diversion from the parish to European
politics, when Dr. Rylance--who secretly abhorred parochial talk--dashed
to the fore and talked with an authority which it was hard for the others
to keep under. He spoke of the impending declaration of war--there is
generally some such thing--as if he had been at the War Office that
morning in confidential converse with the chief officials; but this was
more than Squire Havenant could endure, and he flatly contradicted the
physician on the strength of his morning's correspondence. Mr. Havenant
always talked of his letters as if they contained all the law and the
prophets. His correspondents were high in office, unimpeachable
authorities, men who had the ear of the House, or who pulled the strings
of the Government.

'I am told on the best authority that there will be no war,' he said,
swelling, or seeming to swell, as he spoke.

He was a large man, with a florid complexion and gray mutton-chop
whiskers.

Dr. Rylance shrugged his shoulders and smiled blandly. It was the calm,
incredulous smile with which he encountered any rival medico who was bold
enough to question his treatment.

'That is not the opinion of the War Office,' he said quietly.