The little green door, innocent of lock and key, stood as a
symbol of the close ties that bound the rector and his flock together,
and woe betide the iconoclast who should venture to tamper with it.
The Rectory itself was a picturesque old house with latticed windows
and thatched roof; the climbing roses, which in summer clothed it in a
garment of crimson and pink and white, now shrouded its walls with a
network of brown stems and twigs tipped with emerald buds. Beneath the
warmth of the morning sun the damp was steaming from the
weather-stained thatch in a cloud of pearly mist, while the starlings,
nesting under the overhanging eaves, broke into a harsh twittering of
alarm at the sound of the Rectory footsteps.
Alan Stair was a big, loose-limbed son of Anak, with little of the
conventional cleric in his appearance as he came striding across the
dewy lawn, clad in a disreputable old suit of grey tweeds and with his
bathing-towel slung around his shoulders. His hands were thrust deep
into his pockets, and since he had characteristically omitted to
provide himself with a hat, his abundant brown hair was rumpled and
tossed by the wind, giving him an absurdly boyish air.
Arrived at the flagged path which ran the whole length of the house he
sent up a Jovian shout, loud enough to arouse the most confirmed of
sluggards from his slumbers, and one of the upper lattice windows flew
open in response.
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