Rose said she "felt as
if a clergyman were present all the time papa was at home," and Mrs.
Filmer and Harry spoke with mysterious respect of the great work which
occupied Mr. Filmer's thoughts and time. Harry told Adriana that "it
was a 'History of Civilization' rather on Mr. Buckle's lines, but much
more philosophical." And it was evident Harry firmly believed in his
father; which might not have been the case if the two men had been
busy together, looking after other people's money, or telling smart,
scandalous stories in the club windows.

In fact, if Mr. Filmer had deliberately selected a role which would
bring him the least trouble and the most honor, he could not have done
better unto himself. As it was, whenever he came out of his
retirement, and condescendingly put himself on a level with the family
dinner-table, he was the guest of honor; for usually his little
delicacies were carried with elaborate nicety into the small private
room adjoining the library. Every one tried to make him understand how
great was the favor of his presence; and Adriana, though she knew
nothing of his peculiarities, was able to perceive even in the passing
conversation of the hour, a different influence. Harry generally set
the key at that light tone which touches society in those moods when
it chases gaiety till out of breath. There was always a deeper meaning
in his father's opinions and reflections; and the family were apt to
look admiringly at one another when their profundity was greater than
usual.

In the middle of the meal, there fell upon the company one of those
infectious silences which the "folk" explain by saying "an angel
passes"; but which Harry broke by a question:

"Why this silence?" he asked.

"Why this recollection?" Mr. Filmer immediately substituted. "What are
you all remembering? Speak, my dear," he said to Mrs. Filmer.

"I was recalling the fact that I had not written a line in my diary
for a month."

"I congratulate you, Emma! People who are happy do not write down
their happiness. And you, Miss Van Hoosen?"

"I was remembering some boys that Mr. Filmer and I met in the wood
this morning. They were rifling a thrush's nest. I begged them not to
do it; but then, boys will be boys."

"That is the trouble. If they could only be dogs, or any other
reasonable, useful, or inoffensive creature! But alas! a good boy is
an unnatural boy. Now, Rose, where did your memory stray?"

"To Letitia Landon's wedding.