"Not me, Sir," George answered. "I'm mum, I do assure you, Sir. And if
I might make so bold, you just pop on your hat and step acrost
directly minute. There's that little hole back of the shed what I told
you of. You ain't only got to pop your reverend eye to that there, and
you'll see for yourself as I ain't give tongue for no dragged scent."

"Thank you, George," said the Rector, "I will. Good morning. God bless
you."

The formula came glibly, but it was from the lips only that it came.

Lizzie--his white innocent Lily-girl! In a shed--a man, a stranger,
holding her hand, his arm around her, his eyes--his lips perhaps,
daring--

The Rector was half way down his garden drive.

"Your heart-line," Vernon was saying, "it's a little difficult. You
will be deeply beloved."

To have one's fortune told is disquieting. To keep silence during the
telling deepens the disquiet curiously. It seemed good to Betty to
laugh.

"Soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor," she said, "which am I going to
marry, kind gipsy?"

"I don't believe the gipsies who say they can see marriage in a hand,"
he answered gravely, and Betty feared he had thought her flippant, or
even vulgar; "what one sees are not the shadows of coming conventions.