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street was an impertinence which she should most certainly ignore. No doubt she would have done so, had her mind not still been full of resentment at the way that her aunt had assumed the worst of her. With a fleeting thought in her mind that if she was thought to be badly behaved, she might as well be so, she directed a smile at him from under her lashes, looked down, then turned back to the window, to all intents and purposes once more absorbed in the wares on display. Moments later, he was at her elbow.

    The Revd Michael Buckleigh had come away from the bishop’s palace in no good mood. He had been summoned thither to explain himself, and was now obliged to kick his heels until sent for.
    It had all started so well. The parish to which he had gone as curate two years before had been one to which he had been recommended by his stepfather, The Revd Paul Buckleigh. The vicar under whom he was serving had been pleasant enough, but he never seemed to be available when advice was needed. Michael could certainly have done with some help with regard to young women in the parish, who were rather prone to take a fancy to the striking young curate.
    The local squire’s daughter was already engaged, but, without the slightest encouragement, she had conceived a passion for the new clergyman. This had resulted in her fiancé picking a fight with him, undoubtedly expecting that he would enjoy an easy victory over his rival. Had that happened, perhaps he would have let the matter rest. Buckleigh, however, was proficient in boxing, for he had been coached by a fellow student at Oxford in return for help in learning Greek. The young lady’s fiancé, therefore, had been laid out unconscious on the grass, his father had complained, and Michael had been removed by his bishop.
    The second curacy had seemed to be going so much better. He had now learned how to be friendly whilst at the same time keeping a careful distance, and he had thought that his troubles were over. As time had gone by, Michael had become aware yet again that women, particularly the younger ones, were choosing to see him, the curate, rather than to see the vicar. At first, he had thought that this was simply a recurrence of what had happened before and he redoubled his efforts to be courteous, if a little distant. It was not until one of the young men had confided in him that the vicar, a married man with a family, had become over-familiar with his sweetheart, that he realized, with a sinking heart, that there was a serious problem. With considerable trepidation, Michael had attempted to approach the matter tactfully with his vicar, but had met with a cold response. Eventually, he had found the older clergyman forcing his attentions on a young woman, and he had lost his temper, going so far as to bend the vicar over his own desk, and tan his backside with a yard rule.
    The consequence was almost inevitable. The bishop had sent for him and given him a good dressing-down. ‘It is not for you to take the law into your own hands, Buckleigh,’ the bishop had said, swelling with
indignation. ‘This is not proper behaviour for a clergyman. You have been very much at fault in this matter! Very much at fault! Now, it falls to me to consider what to do with you. Who will have you now, do you suppose? Very few vicars will relish the prospect of having a curate who may lay violent hands upon them. Remember that this is not the first time that you have blotted your copybook through violence. I shall have to weigh this matter very carefully. Very carefully. As for you, you had better wait at your lodgings so that I may consult with my chaplain and others. Whilst you are waiting for me to send for you, I suggest you pray that I do not have you unfrocked!’
    It was with some difficulty that Michael had swallowed the hasty words that were on the tip of his tongue. Protesting his innocence would not have done anything other than make the bishop even more