"M.E.," repeated the Rector. "Well, there must be plenty of M.E.'s in the world. Did he get out at Craiford?"
"He didn't," said Diana. "No; at present he is 'wropt in mist'ry,' but
I feel sure we shall run up against each other again. I told him so."
"Did you, indeed?" Stair laughed. "And was he pleased at the prospect?"
"Well, frankly, Pobs, I can't say he seemed enraptured. On the contrary, he appeared to regard it in the light of a highly improbable and quite undesirable contingency."
"He must be lacking in appreciation," murmured Stair mockingly, pinching her cheek as he passed her on his way to select a pipe from the array that adorned the chimney-piece.
"Are you going 'parishing' this morning?" inquired Diana, as she watched him fill and light his pipe.
"Yes, I promised to visit Susan Gurney—she's laid up with rheumatism, poor old soul."
"Then I'll drive you, shall I? I suppose you've still got Tommy and the ralli-cart?"
"Yes," replied Stair gravely. "Notwithstanding diminishing tithes and increasing taxes, Tommy is still left to us. Apparently he thrives on a penurious diet, for he is fatter than ever."
Accordingly, half an hour later, the two set out behind the fat pony on a round of parochial visits. Underneath the seat of the trap reposed the numerous little packages of tea and tobacco with which the Rector, whose hand was always in his pocket, rarely omitted to season his visits to the sick among his parishioners.