made, and
his hands were very white. He simpered gently as he took hold of
Augusta's fingers, and expressed a hope that she had been quite well
since last he had the pleasure of seeing her. Then he touched the
hands of the Lady Rosina and the Lady Margaretta.

"Mr Moffat, allow me to introduce you to my brother?"

"Most happy, I'm sure," said Mr Moffat, again putting out his hand,
and allowing it to slip through Frank's grasp, as he spoke in a
pretty, mincing voice: "Lady Arabella quite well?--and your father,
and sisters? Very warm isn't it?--quite hot in town, I do assure
you."

"I hope Augusta likes him," said Frank to himself, arguing on the
subject exactly as his father had done; "but for an engaged lover he
seems to me to have a very queer way with him." Frank, poor fellow!
who was of a coarser mould, would, under such circumstances, have
been all for kissing--sometimes, indeed, even under other
circumstances.

Mr Moffat did not do much towards improving the conviviality of
the castle. He was, of course, a good deal intent upon his coming
election, and spent much of his time with Mr Nearthewinde, the
celebrated parliamentary agent. It behoved him to be a good deal
at Barchester, canvassing the electors and undermining, by Mr
Nearthewinde's aid, the mines for blowing him out of his seat, which
were daily being contrived by Mr Closerstil, on behalf of Sir Roger.
The battle was to be fought on the internecine principle, no quarter
being given or taken on either side; and of course this gave Mr
Moffat as much as he knew how to do.

Mr Closerstil was well known to be the sharpest man at his business
in all England, unless the palm should be given to his great rival
Mr Nearthewinde; and in this instance he was to be assisted in the
battle by a very clever young barrister, Mr Romer, who was an admirer
of Sir Roger's career in life. Some people in Barchester, when they
saw Sir Roger, Closerstil and Mr Romer saunter down the High Street,
arm in arm, declared that it was all up with poor Moffat; but others,
in whose head the bump of veneration was strongly pronounced,
whispered to each other that great shibboleth--the name of the Duke
of Omnium--and mildly asserted it to be impossible that the duke's
nominee should be thrown out.

Our poor friend the squire did not take much interest in the matter,
except in so far that he liked his son-in-law to be in Parliament.
Both the candidates were in his eye equally wrong i