imsy book and a restless little pencil--worked up this
idea on the spot into a glowing paragraph.

Very ungallantly the ladies have been left to the last; but now the last
shall be first, although it is difficult to do the subject justice. The
matrons of surrounding parishes, the ladies of Beorminster society, the
damsels of town and country, were all present in their best attire,
chattering and smiling, and becking and bowing, after the observant and
diplomatic ways of their sex. Such white shoulders! such pretty faces!
such Parisian toilettes! such dresses of obviously home manufacture
never were seen in one company. The married ladies whispered scandal
behind their fans, and in a Christian spirit shot out the lip of scorn
at their social enemies; the young maidens sought for marriageable men,
and lurked in darkish corners for the better ensnaring of impressionable
males. Cupid unseen mingled in the throng and shot his arrows right and
left, not always with the best result, as many post-nuptial experiences
showed. There was talk of the gentle art of needlework, of the latest
bazaar and the agreeable address delivered thereat by Mr Cargrim; the
epicene pastime of lawn tennis was touched upon; and ardent young
persons discussed how near they could go to Giant Pope's cave without
getting into the clutches of its occupant. The young men talked golfing,
parish work, horses, church, male millinery, polo and shooting; the
young ladies chatted about Paris fashions and provincial adaptations
thereof, the London season, the latest engagement, and the necessity of
reviving the flirtatious game of croquet. Black coats, coloured dresses,
flashing jewels, many-hued flowers,--the restless crowd resembled a bed
of gaudy tulips tossed by the wind. And all this chattering, laughing,
clattering, glittering mass of well-bred, well-groomed humanity moved,
and swayed, and gyrated under the white glare of the electric lamps.
Urbs in Rus; Belgravia in the Provinces; Vanity Fair amid the
cornfields; no wonder this entertainment of Bishop and Mrs Pendle was
the event of the Beorminster year.

Like an agreeable Jupiter amid adoring mortals, the bishop, with his
chaplain in attendance, moved through the rooms, bestowing a word here,
a smile there, and a hearty welcome on all. A fine-looking man was the
Bishop of Beorminster; as stately in appearance as any prelate drawn by
Du Maurier. He was over six feet, and carried himself in a soldierly
fas