The Real Charlotte. 127 



she spoke she had elaborated the details of a scheme of 

 which the motor should be the cake that Francie's own 

 hand had constructed. 



The choir practice was poorly attended that afternoon. 

 A long and heavy shower, coming at the critical moment, 

 had combined with a still longer and heavier luncheon- 

 party given by Mrs. Lynch, the solicitor's wife, to keep 

 away several members. Francie had evaded her duties by 

 announcing that her only pair of thick boots had gone to be 

 soled, and only the most ardent mustered round Mrs. 

 Gascogne's organ bench. Of these was Pamela Dysart, 

 faithful, as was her wont, in the doing of what she had 

 undertaken; and as Charlotte kicked off her goloshes at 

 the gallery door, and saw Pamela's figure in its accustomed 

 place, she said to herself that consistency was an admirable 

 quality. Her approbation was still warm when she joined 

 Pamela at the church door after the practice was over, and 

 she permitted herself the expression of it. 



•' Miss Dysart, you're the only young woman of the 

 rising generation in whom I place one ha'porth of reliance ; 

 I can tell you, not one step would I have stirred out on the 

 chance of meeting any other member of the choir on a day 

 of this kind, but I knew I might reckon on meeting jj/(i« here." 



" Oh, I like coming to the practices," said Pamela, won- 

 dering why Miss Mullen should specially want to see her. 

 They were standing in the church porch waiting for Pamela's 

 pony-cart, while the rain streamed off the roof in a white veil 

 in front of them. " You must let me drive you home," she 

 went on ; " but I don't think the trap will come till this 

 downpour is over." 



Under the gallery stairs stood a bench, usually appro- 

 priated to the umbrellas and cloaks of the congregation ; 

 and after the rest of the choir had launched themselves forth 

 upon the yellow torrent that took the place of the path 

 through the churchyard, Pamela and Miss Mullen sat them- 

 selves down upon it to wait. Mrs. Gascogne was practising 

 her Sunday voluntary, and the stairs were trembling with the 

 vibrations of the organ ; it was a Largo of Bach's, and 

 Pamela would infinitely have preferred to listen to it than 

 to lend a poUte ear to Charlotte's less tuneful but equally re- 

 verberating voice. 



