He must have thought me a polite lunatic, but he said courteously:
“I shall be delighted to see you at the vicarage, Mr. Wynn, and to hear any news you can give me concerning my old friend. Perhaps you could come this evening?”
I accepted the invitation with alacrity.
“Thanks; that’s very good of you. I’ll come round after dinner, then. But please don’t mention the Pendennises to my cousin, unless she does so first. I’ll explain why, later.”
There was no time for more, as Mary reappeared.
A splendid old gentleman was the Rev. George Treherne. Although he must certainly have been puzzled by my manner and my requests, he concealed the fact admirably, and steered clear of any reference to Pencarrow or its owner; though, of course, he talked a lot about his beloved Cornwall while we had tea.
“He’s charming!” Mary declared, after he had gone. “Though why a man like that should be a bachelor beats me, when there are such hordes of nice women in England who would get married if they could, only there aren’t enough men to go round! I guess I’ll ask Jane Fraser.”
She paused meditatively, chin on hand.
“No,—Jane’s all right, but she’d just worry him to death; there’s no repose about Jane! Margaret Haynes, now; she looks early Victorian, though she can’t be much over thirty. She’d just suit him,—and that nice old vicarage. I’ll write and ask her to come down for a week or two,—right now! What do you think, Maurice?”
“That you’re the most inveterate little matchmaker in the world. Why can’t you leave the poor old man in peace?” I answered, secretly relieved that she had, for the moment, forgotten her anxiety about Anne.