"Of course not. We turn off to the right here."
They rode down, chatting with the easy camaraderie of fox-hunting folk, into sight of a village. It lay just below them, on a spur of the common--pointed church-spire, gray vicarage crouching at foot, among a blob of slate-roofed smoke-plumed cottages. Beyond it, the ground unrolled to a brown and green checker-board of square hedged fields, lozenged here and there with pale woodlands.
"That's High Moor Church," announced Aliette, pointing her whip at the spire.
"High Moor!" The man cogitated. "Isn't a fellow named Brunton the rector?"
"Yes. You speak as if you knew him."
"Only slightly. I see a good deal of his brother. The K.C., you know. I'm at the bar."
"Oh!" Aliette hesitated a moment. "I'm his wife."
"Whose! The parson's?"
"No. The K.C.'s."
Both laughed, feeling the conventional ice broken.