A Damsel in Distress

The front door closed behind Maud. She followed the maid into the

drawing-room. Presently a young small curate entered. He had a

willing, benevolent face. He looked alert and helpful.

"You wished to see me?"

"I am so sorry to trouble you," said Maud, rocking the young man in

his tracks with a smile of dazzling brilliancy--("No trouble, I

assure you," said the curate dizzily)--"but there is a man following

me!"

The curate clicked his tongue indignantly.

"A rough sort of a tramp kind of man. He has been following me for

miles, and I'm frightened."

"Brute!"

"I think he's outside now. I can't think what he wants. Would

you--would you mind being kind enough to go and send him away?"

The eyes that had settled George's fate for all eternity flashed

upon the curate, who blinked. He squared his shoulders and drew

himself up. He was perfectly willing to die for her.

"If you will wait here," he said, "I will go and send him about his

business. It is disgraceful that the public highways should be

rendered unsafe in this manner."

"Thank you ever so much," said Maud gratefully. "I can't help

thinking the poor fellow may be a little crazy. It seems so odd of

him to follow me all that way. Walking in the ditch too!"

"Walking in the ditch!"

"Yes. He walked most of the way in the ditch at the side of the

road. He seemed to prefer it. I can't think why."

Lord Belpher, leaning against the wall and trying to decide whether

his right or left foot hurt him the more excruciatingly, became

aware that a curate was standing before him, regarding him through

a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez with a disapproving and hostile

expression. Lord Belpher returned his gaze. Neither was favourably

impressed by the other. Percy thought he had seen nicer-looking

curates, and the curate thought he had seen more prepossessing

tramps.

"Come, come!" said the curate. "This won't do, my man!" A few hours

earlier Lord Belpher had been startled when addressed by George as

"sir". To be called "my man" took his breath away completely.

The gift of seeing ourselves as others see us is, as the poet

indicates, vouchsafed to few men. Lord Belpher, not being one of

these fortunates, had not the slightest conception how intensely

revolting his personal appearance was at that moment. The

red-rimmed eyes, the growth of stubble on the cheeks, and the thick

coating of mud which had resulted from his rambles in the ditch

combined to render him a horrifying object.

"How dare you follow that young lady? I've a good mind to give you

in charge!"