eaning, caryatid
fashion, against the mantelshelf, without uttering a word, while Owen, in
a half-recumbent position on an ottoman, a little in the rear of Miss
Charlecote and her tea equipage, and close to Phoebe, indulged in the
blithe loquacity of a return home, in a tone of caressing banter towards
the first lady, of something between good-nature and attention to the
latter, yet without any such exclusiveness as would have been disregard
to the other guests.

'Ponto well! Poor old Pon! how does he get on? Was it a very affecting
parting, Phoebe?'

'I didn't see. I met Miss Charlecote at the station.'

'Not even your eyes might intrude on the sacredness of grief! Well, at
least you dried them? But who dried Ponto's?' solemnly turning on
Honora.

'Jones, I hope,' said she, smiling.

'I knew it! Says I to myself, when Henry opened the door, Jones remains
at home for the consolation of Ponto.'

'Not entirely--' began Honora, laughing; but the boy shook his head,
cutting her short with a playful frown.

'Cousin Honor, it grieves me to see a woman of your age and
responsibility making false excuses. Mr. Parsons, I appeal to you, as a
clergyman of the Church of England, is it not painful to hear her putting
forward Jones's asthma, when we all know the true fact is that Ponto's
tastes are so aristocratic that he can't take exercise with an under
servant, and the housekeeper is too fat to waddle. By the bye, how is
the old thing?'

'Much more effective than might be supposed by your account, sir, and
probably wishing to know whether to get your room ready.'

'My room. Thank you; no, not to-night. I've got nothing with me. What
are you going to do to-morrow? I know you are to be at Charteris's to
luncheon; his Jewess told me so.'

'For shame, Owen.'

'I don't see any shame, if Charles doesn't,' said Owen; 'only if you
don't think yourselves at a stall of cheap jewellery at a fair--that's
all! Phoebe, take care. You're a learned young lady.'

'No; I'm very backward.'

'Ah! it's the fashion to deny it, but mind you don't mention
Shakespeare.'

'Why not?'

'Did you never hear of the _Merchant of Venice_?'

Phoebe, a little startled, wanted to hear whether Mrs. Charteris were
really Jewish, and after a little more in this style, which Honor
reasonably feared the Parsonses might not consider in good taste, it was
explained that her riches were Jewish, though her grandfather had been
nothing, an