ourself. To be sure, it's your own
concern--you should know best; but that's my opinion. Why, Wentworth,
where are you off to? 'Tisn't a fast, surely--is it, Mary?--nothing of
the sort; it's Thursday--_Thursday_, do you hear? and the Rector newly
arrived. Come along."

"I am much obliged, but I have an appointment," began the curate, with
restraint.

"Why didn't you keep it, then, before _we_ came in," cried Mr Wodehouse,
"chatting with a couple of girls like Lucy and Mary? Come along, come
along--an appointment with some old woman or other, who wants to screw
flannels and things out of you--well, I suppose so! I don't know anything
else you could have to say to them. Come along."

"Thank you. I shall hope to wait on the Rector shortly," said young
Wentworth, more and more stiffly; "but at present I am sorry it is not
in my power. Good morning, Miss Wodehouse--good morning; I am happy to
have had the opportunity----" and the voice of the perpetual curate died
off into vague murmurs of politeness as he made his way towards the
green door.

That green door! what a slight, paltry barrier--one plank and no more; but
outside a dusty dry road, nothing to be seen but other high brick walls,
with here and there an apple-tree or a lilac, or the half-developed
flower-turrets of a chestnut looking over--nothing to be seen but a mean
little costermonger's cart, with a hapless donkey, and, down in the
direction of St Roque's, the long road winding, still drier and dustier.
Ah me! was it paradise inside? or was it only a merely mortal lawn dropped
over with apple-blossoms, blue ribbons, and other vanities? Who could
tell? The perpetual curate wended sulky on his way. I fear the old woman
would have made neither flannel nor tea and sugar out of him in that
inhuman frame of mind.

"Dreadful young prig that young Wentworth," said Mr Wodehouse, "but
comes of a great family, you know, and gets greatly taken notice of--to
be sure he does, child. I suppose it's for his family's sake: I can't
see into people's hearts. It may be higher motives, to be sure, and all
that. He's gone off in a huff about something; never mind, luncheon
comes up all the same. Now, let's address ourselves to the business of
life."

For when Mr Wodehouse took knife and fork in hand a singular result
followed. He was silent--at least he talked no longer: the mystery
of carving, of eating, of drinking--all the serious business of the
table--engrossed the good m