They were in the little dark-wooded, red-walled library of the rectory, Aunt Bell with her book of devotion, Nancy at her desk, writing.
From her low chair near the window, Aunt Bell had just beheld the Doctor's erect head, its hat of flawless gloss, and his beautifully squared shoulders, progress at a moderate speed across her narrow field of vision.

In so stiffly a level line had they passed that a profane thought seized her unawares: the fancy that the rector of St.Antipas had been pulled by the window on rollers.

But this was at once atoned for.

She observed that Allan was one of the few men who walk always like those born to rule.

Then she spoke: "Nancy, why do you never walk with Allan in the afternoon?
Nothing would please him better--the boy is positively proud to have you." "Oh, I had to finish this letter to Clara," Nancy answered abstractedly, as if still intent upon her writing, debating a word with narrowed eyes and pen-tip at her teeth.
But Aunt Bell was neither to be misunderstood nor insufficiently answered.
"Not this afternoon, especially--_any_ afternoon.