At lunch time the Colonel remarked casually that he had walked a little way with Miss Layard, who mentioned that she had seen them—i.e., his son and Miss Fregelius—struggling through the gale the other night. Then he watched the effect of this shot. Morris moved his chair and looked uncomfortable; clearly he was a most transparent sinner. But on Stella it took no effect.
“As usual,” reflected the Colonel, “the lady has the most control. Or perhaps he tried to kiss her and she wouldn’t let him, and a consciousness of virtue gives her strength.”
After luncheon the Colonel paid a visit to Mr. Fregelius, ostensibly to talk to him about the proposed restoration of the chancel, for which he, as holder of the great tithes, was jointly liable with the rector, a responsibility that, in the altered circumstances of the family, he now felt himself able to face. When this subject was exhausted, which did not take long, as Mr. Fregelius refused to express any positive opinion until he had inspected the church, the Colonel’s manner grew portentously solemn.
“My dear sir,” he said, “there is another matter, a somewhat grave one, upon which, for both our sakes and the sakes of those immediately concerned, I feel bound to say a few words.”
Mr. Fregelius, who was a timid man, looked very much alarmed. A conviction that the “grave matter” had something to do with Stella flashed into his mind, but all he said was:
“I am afraid I don’t understand, Colonel Monk.”
“No; indeed, how should you? Well, to come to the point, it has to do with that very charming daughter of yours and my son Morris.”
“I feared as much,” groaned the clergyman.
“Indeed! I thought you said you did not understand.”
“No, but I guessed; wherever Stella goes things seem to happen.”