"Assuredly," Mr Musgrave agreed, with his ear inclined towards Miss Simpson and his eye fixed on a huge punch-bowl standing on a table in the centre of the hall, presided over by the female butler and her helpers.

The scene in the hall, thronged with its brilliant assemblage of guests, many of whom wore, as Peggy did, the costumes in which they had appeared in the tableaux, suggested to Mr Musgrave's mind a scene from an opera.

The broad oak staircase, leading up from either side and ending in a gallery connecting both, was crowded with young people. Peggy had joined one of the groups on the stairs, a group composed largely of young men, whose sallies seemed to be affording her considerable amusement. When the punch was served round and every one, glass in hand, waited for the striking of the hour, looking up to where she stood, leaning against the baluster in her emerald velvet robe, her round white arm upraised holding its glass aloft, Mr Musgrave met her eyes fully as the hour chimed forth, and, meeting them, was conscious that she was looking towards him deliberately, with a kindly smile parting her lips. She leaned down towards him, and, putting the glass to her lips, drank to him. John Musgrave made a slight inclination of his head and drank to her in return. Then, scarce knowing what his companion was saying, amid the hum of talk and laughter, and the curious abstraction of his thoughts, he observed sententiously:

"There is a sort of dignity in these old customs. I do not think I have ever enjoyed a Christmas party more."

And Miss Simpson, who had just remarked to him on the want of respect for the day which this hilarity betokened, regarded him with a wondering reproach, and answered flatly:

"It is very gay, certainly--but--dignified! Do you really think so?"

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

The vicar, as he took off his surplice after the early celebration on Christmas morning, and turned to hang it on its peg, became aware that Robert had entered the vestry, and was hovering about, busying himself unnecessarily, moving things ostentatiously and replacing them in the same positions, and watching the vicar furtively meanwhile, as a man might whose conscience is not altogether free from reproach. The vicar looked at his sexton with as much severity as he was capable of assuming towards Robert, whose failings were sufficiently familiar to him to have ceased to appear disproportionately grave. But Robert merited rebuke, and was apparently expecting it. In anticipation of reproof he attempted propitiation.

"Never seed a bigger congregation than we 'ad for 'Oly Commoonion this morning, sir," he observed. "Folks don't turn up most places like they do at our church."

Some of the credit for the large congregation he appropriated to himself. The vicar finished disrobing, and then faced deliberately round.

"I am at least relieved," he said, "that you were capable of putting in an appearance."

"Oh ay," Robert answered cheerfully. "I've never failed these thirty year--though there 'ave been times, I allow, when I'd rather a laid a-bed. But Hannah sees to that."

"I heard," the vicar said gravely, "that you were very drunk last night, Robert."

"I was, sir," Robert admitted, unabashed.

When an unpleasant situation had to be faced he liked to face it and get it over. Usually on these occasions he carried matters to a triumphant finish and got as much satisfaction out of them as tribulation. When a thing is done, it's done, was Robert's philosophy; no use grizzling over it.

"I am ashamed of you," the vicar said. "Your conduct was a serious abuse of hospitality. They tell me you were carried home utterly incapable."

"I was, sir," Robert admitted again.

"Hadn't Hannah something to say about that?" the vicar inquired, repressing an inclination to smile. His knowledge of the power and quality of Mrs Robert's eloquence on these occasions suggested that further reprimanding on his side was superfluous.

Robert slowly stroked his beard and looked, the vicar could not but observe, pleasantly reminiscent.

"I expect she 'ad, sir," he said. "But, thank God! I was too far gone to bear aught 'er said. Daresay she talked all night, too; she generally does."

Robert seized the vicar's overcoat and helped him into it, and, with unusual solicitude for his health, inquired if he had not thought of wearing a muffler.

"The cold's cruel," he said. "You ought to take care o' yer throat.

Think o' the disappointment if you was laid by, and couldn't preach."

"I wish," the vicar observed drily, "that you would study your own constitution as carefully."

"That's all right, sir," Robert answered, wilfully misunderstanding. "I allays wears a old muffler when the weather's sharp."

He handed the vicar his hat, performing these supererogatory offices with the patronising air of a man humouring his superior's peculiarities.

"Milk punch they said it was," he muttered in the form of a soliloquy.

"I thought a babby could 'a' swallowed it. Milk don't digest, I reckon, in a stummick come to my age. But 'twas pretty drinking, howsomever."

So much, the vicar mused, for Robert's repentance. It were as profitable to rebuke the weather for inclemency as Robert for his sins.

The vicar dismissed Robert from his mind on emerging into the open, and allowed his thoughts to dwell instead on something he had witnessed the previous night, and had reviewed so often since, that, brief as had been his glimpse of the scene, it was photographed on his memory with the distinctness of a picture actually present to his gaze. This scene which was so startlingly fresh in his mind was a glimpse he had obtained in passing the open door of the billiard-room, of John Musgrave holding Peggy Annersley's hand while he hung over the back of the settee on which she was seated and looked into the upturned face. So quiet had been the grouping of this picture, so utterly unexpected and unreal had it appeared to Walter Errol's surprised gaze, that it might have been the enactment of another tableau, such as those he had been witnessing in the room he had just left. One long astonished look he had given it, and then, utterly bewildered, like a man who feels his solid world reduced to unsubstantiality, he had passed on and mingled with the other guests in the hall. He had been a witness of the tardy appearance of John Musgrave and Miss Annersley; and for the rest of the night was conscious of a watchful curiosity in regard to them which, against his volition, he found himself exercising until the party broke up.

"Coelebs!... Old Coelebs!" he mused, and laughed softly as he pursued his way to the vicarage, where, in the cosy morning-room, his wife and tiny daughter waited for him with their Christmas gifts.

A happy man was the vicar that Christmas morning, and comparing his comfortable, pleasant home with the lonely elegance of John Musgrave's house it gave him genuine satisfaction to recall the amazing picture of John Musgrave bending over pretty Peggy Annersley in an attitude which conveyed more to the impartial observer than a merely friendly interest in his charming companion. Possibly last night was the first occasion on which John Musgrave had ever held a girl's hand in this way and hung over her, looking into her eyes. Such conduct in the case of the average man would have counted for nothing, or for very little... But Coelebs... The man who never looked at a woman with the natural interest of the ordinary male...

The vicar broke into a smile at his own thoughts, and, since nothing had been said to raise a smile, was called upon by his wife to explain the cause of his good humour. His answer was ambiguous.

"I think," he said, "that Mrs Chadwick is succeeding in some of her schemes with most unlooked-for results."

"I fail to see that there was anything in last night's party to suggest extraordinary developments," Mrs Errol replied. She had not witnessed the scene which her husband had witnessed and he had not spoken of it to her. "And I don't find anything in that to smile about. You must enjoy an abnormal sense of humour."

"Perhaps I do," he allowed. "Tell me what you think of Miss Peggy Annersley."

Mrs Errol smiled in her turn, and glanced at her husband with the tolerant contempt women show towards their men when they suspect them of falling a victim to the fascinations of a popular member of their sex.

"You, too?" she said.

"There was nothing in my question to justify that remark," said the vicar, who did not, however, appear to resent it. "Like Miss Dartle, I asked for information."

"I think she is quite a nice girl," replied Mrs Errol ungrudgingly; "and, judging by the way in which the men flock after her, they share my opinion. Doctor Fairbridge is crazy about her."

"Oh!" said the vicar. Plainly this intelligence was not pleasing to him. Doctor Fairbridge was the Rushleigh practitioner, and he was young and good-looking, and unquestionably eligible. "You think that, do you?

Should you say that he stands any chance of winning her?"

"She seems to like him," Mrs Errol answered. "It would be a very suitable match. He is the right age, and his practice is good. They say he is clever. At the same time, I don't fancy Miss Annersley is the kind of girl who is eager to get married. She will probably be difficult to please."

"H'm?" remarked the vicar, and looked a trifle serious. He began to entertain doubts of Miss Annersley. "You wouldn't, I suppose," he hazarded, "suspect her of being a flirt?"

"That depends on what you mean exactly. Given the opportunity, every woman is a flirt. I wouldn't accuse her of being unscrupulous. But all girls like attention; it is against human nature to discourage what one derives amusement from."

"I wish human nature were different in that respect," the vicar returned.

He was quite convinced that John Musgrave had no thought of flirting, and he did not like to believe that Miss Annersley was merely deriving amusement. She had looked, he recalled, on the previous night quite sweetly serious. But a woman might look serious and yet be inwardly amused. If Peggy Annersley was amusing herself at John Musgrave's expense it would be the finish, the vicar realised, of his friend's liking and respect for her sex. John Musgrave was not the type of man to make a heartbreak of it, but assuredly he would not essay a second time.

"I should like to know," Mrs Errol said, "why you are so particularly concerned with Miss Annersley's matrimonial affairs? Your interest is most extraordinary."

Then it was that the vicar told her of the scene he had accidentally witnessed the previous night. She was not so greatly impressed as he had expected her to be, but a scene described is less effective than the same scene actually beheld. He found that he could not adequately depict the expression on the two faces; he could only explain baldly that John seemed very much in earnest.

"John always is," she retorted. "That's what makes him so dull. You don't for one moment imagine, do you, that a pretty girl like Miss Annersley would fall in love with John?"

"I do not think that I took her feelings into consideration," he answered. "I have a very strong suspicion that John is falling in love with her."

"I'm not sure," returned Mrs Errol, smiling, "that that wouldn't be more amazing than the other thing. I can't credit it--but I hope he is."