carefully upon the shelf of the dressing-table. "And a kind of staring look about his eyes, and a simpering smile. Quite a silly looking person. Effeminate."
"But who can he be?" said Mrs. Mendham.
"I can't imagine, my dear. Nor where he came from. He might be a chorister or something of that sort."
"But why should he be about the shrubbery … in that dreadful costume?"
"I don't know. The Vicar gave me no explanation. He simply said, 'Mendham, this is an Angel.'"
"I wonder if he drinks... They may have been bathing near the spring, of course," reflected Mrs. Mendham. "But I noticed no other clothes on his arm."
The Curate sat down on his bed and unlaced his boots.
"It's a perfect mystery to me, my dear." (Flick, flick of laces.) "Hallucination is the only charitable———"
"You are sure, George, that it was not a woman."
"Perfectly," said the Curate.
