ramble tart, and a bit of Stilton,--these were the cates he deemed
worthy of kings. But the housekeeping pride of his lady forbade so
inelegant a repast. "I like my guests to see that I know how things
_ought_ to be done and _are_ done, Charles," she said in a final tone:
"I will _not_ have people saying that the vicarage ..." and the rest.
The vicar had given way with a sigh, reserving himself for the battle he
knew must follow.

It had come at once. Mrs. Peters, profuse to lavishness over the more
solid items, betrayed a feminine false economy over the wine. There
ought to be wine, of course. Though she was a teetotaler herself, still
she knew that her guests should be offered the juice of the grape. But
on the desirability of spending large sums for liquid that would vanish
in a twinkling she held strong views. "You need not _dream_, Charles, of
wasting money on expensive brands. I saw some invalid port at the
grocer's this morning...." But here her husband showed himself unusually
pig-headed. He grew rigid at the words "invalid port." "No, Clara," he
said resolutely; "I won't have that at any price--even the grocer's. I
believe in good things, or none at all. I'd sooner drink water than poor
wine. We can't afford good port, but we _can_ afford good whisky or
cider. Those it shall be." He was deaf to reason, though his wife begged
him, with tears in her eyes, not to be so inconsiderate.

Cider it had been, and Mrs. Peters had felt ashamed. The sight of three
men quaffing deeply of the plebeian beverage gave no comfort: they were
doing it to spare her feelings, of course, and she resented the unspoken
charity. Besides, she did not greatly care about her guests. Mr. Wild
seemed singularly purposeless for a young man, and there was a
half-veiled mockery in his speech that grated. Mr. Bangs was clearly of
inferior breeding and did not seem at ease. He talked little and
nervously, starting at the mention of his name. "He can not have a
past," thought Mrs. Peters grudgingly, "but he is certainly not used to
the society of gentle-people. I do wish Charles would not ..." The
dinner was not a success, though the vicar enjoyed the post-prandial
smoke and small-talk.

So (leaving our muttons to return to them) they were at tea to-day. Or
rather, they had finished tea and were taking idly on the lawn. The
vicar was lying comfortably in a basket-chair, trying to color a
meerschaum. Mrs. Peters was busy with embroidery. Tony and