Yarmouth is not a happy place for a picnic. A picnic should be held among green things. Green turf is absolutely an essential. There should be trees, broken ground, small paths, thickets, and hidden recesses. There should, if possible, be rocks, old timber, moss, and brambles. There should certainly be hills and dales,--on a small scale; and above all, there should be running water. There should be no expanse. Jones should not be able to see all Greene's movements, nor should Augusta always have her eye upon her sister Jane. But the spot chosen for Mr. Cheesacre's picnic at Yarmouth had none of the virtues above described. It was on the seashore.

Yarmouth is not a happy place for a picnic. A picnic should be held among green things. There should be grass, trees, small paths, thickets, and hidden recesses. There should be hills and dales - on a small scale; and above all, there should be running water.
But the spot chosen for Mr. Cheesacre's picnic had none of these virtues. It was on the seashore.


Nothing was visible from the site but sand and sea. There were no trees there and nothing green;--neither was there any running water. But there was a long, dry, flat strand; there was an old boat half turned over, under which it was proposed to dine; and in addition to this, benches, boards, and some amount of canvas for shelter were provided by the liberality of Mr. Cheesacre. Therefore it was called Mr. Cheesacre's picnic.
But it was to be a marine picnic, and therefore the essential attributes of other picnics were not required. The idea had come from some boating expeditions, in which mackerel had been caught, and during which food had been eaten, not altogether comfortably, in the boats. Then a thought had suggested itself to Captain Bellfield that they might land and eat their food, and his friend Mr. Cheesacre had promised his substantial aid. A lady had surmised that Ormesby sands would be the very place for dancing in the cool of the evening. They might "Dance on the sand," she said, "and yet no footing seen." And so the thing had progressed, and the picnic been inaugurated.

Nothing was visible but sand and sea. There were no trees and nothing green; but there was a long, dry, flat beach; there was an old boat half turned over, under which it was proposed to dine; and benches, tables, and some canvas for shelter were provided by Mr. Cheesacre. Therefore it was called Mr. Cheesacre's picnic.
It was to be a marine picnic; an idea taken from some boating expeditions, during which food had been eaten, not altogether comfortably, in the boats. Captain Bellfield had suggested that they might land and eat their food, and his friend Mr. Cheesacre had promised his aid. A lady had said that the sand would be the very place for dancing in the cool of the evening. And so the thing had progressed.


It was Mr. Cheesacre's picnic undoubtedly. Mr. Cheesacre was to supply the boats, the wine, the cigars, the music, and the carpenter's work necessary for the turning of the old boat into a banqueting saloon. But Mrs. Greenow had promised to provide the eatables, and enjoyed as much of the _clat_ as the master of the festival. She had known Mr. Cheesacre now for ten days and was quite intimate with him. He was a stout, florid man, of about forty-five, a bachelor, apparently much attached to ladies' society, bearing no sign of age except that he was rather bald, and that grey hairs had mixed themselves with his whiskers, very fond of his farming, and yet somewhat ashamed of it when he found himself in what he considered to be polite circles. And he was, moreover, a little inclined to seek the honour which comes from a well-filled and liberally-opened purse. He liked to give a man a dinner and then to boast of the dinner he had given. He was very proud when he could talk of having mounted, for a day's hunting, any man who might be supposed to be of higher rank than himself. "I had Grimsby with me the other day,--the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwick, you know. Blessed if he didn't stake my bay mare.

Mr. Cheesacre was to supply the boats, the wine, the cigars, the music, and the carpenter's work necessary for turning the old boat into a banqueting saloon. But Mrs. Greenow had promised to provide the food. She had known Mr. Cheesacre now for ten days and was quite intimate with him. He was a stout, florid man of about forty-five, a bachelor, apparently much attached to ladies' society, rather bald, and very fond of his farming - and yet somewhat ashamed of it in what he considered to be polite circles.
He was, moreover, inclined to seek the honour which comes from a well-filled and generous purse. He liked to give a man dinner and then to boast of the dinner he had given.


But what matters? I mounted him again the next day just the same." Some people thought he was soft, for it was very well known throughout Norfolk that young Grimsby would take a mount wherever he could get it. In these days Mrs. Greenow had become intimate with Mr. Cheesacre, and had already learned that he was the undoubted owner of his own acres.
"It wouldn't do for me," she had said to him, "to be putting myself forward, as if I were giving a party myself, or anything of that sort;--would it now?"
"Well, perhaps not. But you might come with us."
"So I will, Mr. Cheesacre, for that dear girl's sake. I should never forgive myself if I debarred her from all the pleasures of youth, because of my sorrows. I need hardly say that at such a time as this nothing of that sort can give me any pleasure."

Mrs. Greenow had already learned that he was the owner of his own acres.
"It wouldn't do for me," she had said to him, "to be putting myself forward, as if I were giving a party myself."
"Well, perhaps not. But you might come with us."
"So I will, Mr. Cheesacre, for that dear girl's sake. I should never forgive myself if I prevented her pleasures, because of my sorrows. Just now nothing of that sort can give me any pleasure."


"I suppose not," said Mr. Cheesacre, with solemn look.
"Quite out of the question." And Mrs. Greenow wiped away her tears. "For though as regards age I might dance on the sands as merrily as the best of them--"
"That I'm sure you could, Mrs. Greenow."
"How's a woman to enjoy herself if her heart lies buried?"
"But it won't be so always, Mrs. Greenow."
Mrs. Greenow shook her head to show that she hardly knew how to answer such a question. Probably it would be so always;--but she did not wish to put a damper on the present occasion by making so sad a declaration. "But as I was saying," continued she--"if you and I do it between us won't that be the surest way of having it come off nicely?"

"I suppose not," said Mr. Cheesacre solemnly.
"Quite out of the question." Mrs. Greenow wiped away her tears. "For how is a woman to enjoy herself if her heart lies buried?"
"But it won't be so always, Mrs. Greenow."
Mrs. Greenow shook her head doubtfully. "But as I was saying, if you and I do it between us, won't that be best?


Mr. Cheesacre thought that it would be the best way.
"Exactly so;--I'll do the meat and pastry and fruit, and you shall do the boats and the wine."
"And the music," said Cheesacre, "and the expenses at the place." He did not choose that any part of his outlay should go unnoticed.
"I'll go halves in all that if you like," said Mrs. Greenow. But Mr. Cheesacre had declined this. He did not begrudge the expense, but only wished that it should be recognised.
"And, Mr. Cheesacre," continued Mrs. Greenow. "I did mean to send the music; I did, indeed."
"I couldn't hear of it, Mrs. Greenow."

I'll do the meat and pastry and fruit, and you shall do the boats and the wine."
"And the music," said Cheesacre, "and the expenses." He did not choose that any part of his outlay should go unnoticed.
"About the music


"But I mention it now, because I was thinking of getting Blowehard to come. That other man, Flutey, wouldn't do at all out in the open air."
"It shall be Blowehard," said Mr. Cheesacre; and it was Blowehard. Mrs. Greenow liked to have her own way in these little things, though her heart did lie buried.

 - I was thinking of getting Blowhard to come."
"It shall be Blowhard," said Mr. Cheesacre.


On the morning of the picnic Mr. Cheesacre came down to Montpelier Parade with Captain Bellfield, whose linen on that occasion certainly gave no outward sign of any quarrel between him and his washerwoman. He was got up wonderfully, and was prepared at all points for the day's work. He had on a pseudo-sailor's jacket, very liberally ornamented with brass buttons, which displayed with great judgement the exquisite shapes of his pseudo-sailor's duck trousers. Beneath them there was a pair of very shiny patent-leather shoes, well adapted for dancing on the sand, presuming him to be anxious of doing so, as Venus offered to do, without leaving any footmarks. His waistcoat was of a delicate white fabric, ornamented with very many gilt buttons. He had bejewelled studs in his shirt, and yellow kid gloves on his hands; having, of course, another pair in his pocket for the necessities of the evening. His array was quite perfect, and had stricken dismay into the heart of his friend Cheesacre, when he joined that gentleman. He was a well-made man, nearly six feet high, with dark hair, dark whiskers, and dark moustache, nearly black, but of that suspicious hue which to the observant beholder seems always to tell a tale of the hairdresser's shop. He was handsome, too, with well-arranged features,--but carrying, perhaps, in his nose some first symptoms of the effects of midnight amusements. Upon the whole, however, he was a nice man to look at--for those who like to look on nice men of that kind.

On the morning of the picnic Mr. Cheesacre came to Montpelier Parade with Captain Bellfield, whose linen that day certainly gave no sign of any quarrel with his washerwoman. He was got up wonderfully, in a pseudo-sailor's jacket, liberally ornamented with brass buttons, a fine white waistcoat, and pseudo-sailor's trousers. He wore a pair of very shiny patent-leather shoes, well adapted for dancing on the sand. He had bejewelled studs in his shirt, and yellow kid gloves on his hands; and his appearance struck dismay into the heart of his friend Cheesacre. The captain was a tall, handsome, well-made man, whose hair and whiskers were nearly black, but of that suspicious hue which seems to tell of the hairdresser's shop.


Cheesacre, too, had adopted something of a sailor's garb. He had on a jacket of a rougher sort, coming down much lower than that of the captain, being much looser, and perhaps somewhat more like a garment which a possible seaman might possibly wear. But he was disgusted with himself the moment that he saw Bellfield. His heart had been faint, and he had not dared to ornament himself boldly as his friend had done. "I say, Guss, you are a swell," he exclaimed. It may be explained that Captain Bellfield had been christened Gustavus.
"I don't know much about that," said the captain; "my fellow sent me this toggery, and said that it was the sort of thing. I'll change with you if you like it." But Cheesacre could not have worn that jacket, and he walked on, hating himself.

Cheesacre, too, had adopted a sailor's garb. He had on a rougher, looser jacket than the captain's, perhaps more like a real seaman's garment. But he was disgusted with himself the moment that he saw Bellfield.
"I say, you are a swell," he exclaimed.
"I don't know about that," said the captain. "I'll change with you if you like." But Cheesacre could not have worn that jacket, and he walked on, hating himself.


It will be remembered that Mrs. Greenow had spoken with considerable severity of Captain Bellfield's pretensions when discussing his character with her niece; but, nevertheless, on the present occasion she received him with most gracious smiles. It may be that her estimate of his character had been altered, or that she was making sacrifice of her own feelings in consideration of Mr. Cheesacre, who was known to be the captain's intimate friend. But she had smiles for both of them. She had a wondrous power of smiling; and could, upon occasion, give signs of peculiar favour to half a dozen different gentlemen in as many minutes. They found her in the midst of hampers which were not yet wholly packed, while Mrs. Jones, Jeannette, and the cook of the household moved around her, on the outside of the circle, ministering to her wants. She had in her hand an outspread clean napkin, and she wore fastened round her dress a huge coarse apron, that she might thus be protected from some possible ebullition of gravy, or escape of salad mixture, or cream; but in other respects she was clothed in the fullest honours of widowhood. She had not mitigated her weeds by half an inch. She had scorned to make any compromise between the world of pleasure and the world of woe. There she was, a widow, declared by herself to be of four months' standing, with a buried heart, making ready a dainty banquet with skill and liberality. She was ready on the instant to sit down upon the baskets in which the grouse pie had been just carefully inhumed, and talked about her sainted lamb with a deluge of tears.

It will be remembered that Mrs. Greenow had spoken severely of Captain Bellfield's pretensions when discussing him with her niece; nevertheless, on this occasion she received him with most gracious smiles. But she had smiles for Mr. Cheesacre too. She had a wondrous power of smiling; and could, at times, favour half a dozen different gentlemen in as many minutes.
They found her in the midst of half-packed hampers, while Mrs. Jones, Jeannette, and the cook moved around her. She wore a huge apron, to protect her dress from any possible escape of cream or gravy; but otherwise she was clothed in full mourning. There she was, a widow of four months' standing, with a buried heart, skilfully making ready a dainty banquet.


If anybody didn't like it, that person--might do the other thing. Mr. Cheesacre and Captain Bellfield thought that they did like it.
"Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, if you haven't caught me before I've half done! Captain Bellfield, I hope you think my apron becoming."
"Everything that you wear, Mrs. Greenow, is always becoming."
"Don't talk in that way when you know--; but never mind--we will think of nothing sad to-day if we can help it. Will we, Mr. Cheesacre?"
"Oh dear no; I should think not;--unless it should come on to rain."

Mr. Cheesacre and Captain Bellfield were charmed.
"Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, if you haven't caught me before I've half done! Captain Bellfield, I hope you think my apron becoming."
"Everything that you wear, Mrs. Greenow, is always becoming."
"Don't talk in that way when - but never mind; we will think of nothing sad today. Will we, Mr. Cheesacre?"
"Oh dear no; unless it should happen to rain."


"It won't rain--we won't think of such a thing. But, by the by, Captain Bellfield, I and my niece do mean to send out a few things, just in a bag you know, so that we may tidy ourselves up a little after the sea. I don't want it mentioned, because if it gets about among the other ladies, they'd think we wanted to make a dressing of it;--and there wouldn't be room for them all; would there?"
"No; there wouldn't," said Mr. Cheesacre, who had been out on the previous evening, inspecting, and perhaps limiting, the carpenters in their work.
"That's just it," said Mrs. Greenow. "But there won't be any harm, will there, Mr. Cheesacre, in Jeanette's going out with our things? She'll ride in the cart, you know, with the eatables. I know Jeannette's a friend of yours."
"We shall be delighted to have Jeanette," said Mr. Cheesacre.
"Thank ye, sir," said Jeannette, with a curtsey.

"It won't rain. By the by, Captain Bellfield, I and my niece mean to send ahead a few things in a bag, so that we may tidy ourselves up a little after the sea. I don't want it mentioned, because if it gets about among the other ladies, they'd think we wanted to dress up; and there wouldn't be room for them all, would there?"
"No," said Mr. Cheesacre.
"But you don't mind Jeanette's going with our things? She'll ride in the cart, you know, with the food."
"We shall be delighted to have Jeanette," said Mr. Cheesacre.
"Thank ye, sir," said Jeannette, with a curtsey.


"Jeannette, don't you let Mr. Cheesacre turn your head; and mind you behave yourself and be useful. Well; let me see;--what else is there? Mrs. Jones, you might as well give me that ham now. Captain Bellfield, hand it over. Don't you put it into the basket, because you'd turn it the wrong side down. There now, if you haven't nearly made me upset the apricot pie." Then, in the transfer of the dishes between the captain and the widow, there occurred some little innocent by-play, which seemed to give offence to Mr. Cheesacre; so that that gentleman turned his back upon the hampers and took a step away towards the door.
Mrs. Greenow saw the thing at a glance, and immediately applied herself to cure the wound. "What do you think, Mr. Cheesacre," said she, "Kate wouldn't come down because she didn't choose that you should see her with an apron on over her frock!"
"I'm sure I don't know why Miss Vavasor should care about my seeing her."

"Jeannette, don't you let Mr. Cheesacre turn your head; and mind you behave yourself and be useful. Mrs. Jones, you might as well give me that ham now. Captain Bellfield, don't you put it into the basket upside down. There now, if you haven't nearly made me upset the apricot pie." Some innocent little by-play in the transfer of the dishes seemed to give offence to Mr. Cheesacre; he turned his back upon the hampers and stepped towards the door.
Mrs. Greenow saw this at a glance, and immediately applied herself to cure the wound.
"What do you think, Mr. Cheesacre," said she, "Kate wouldn't come down because she didn't want you to see her with an apron on!"
"I'm sure I don't know why Miss Vavasor should care about that."


"Nor I either. That's just what I said. Do step up into the drawing-room; you'll find her there, and you can make her answer for herself."
"She wouldn't come down for me," said Mr. Cheesacre. But he didn't stir. Perhaps he wasn't willing to leave his friend with the widow.
At length the last of the dishes was packed and Mrs. Greenow went up-stairs with the two gentlemen. There they found Kate and two or three other ladies who had promised to embark under the protection of Mrs. Greenow's wings. There were the two Miss Fairstairs, whom Mrs. Greenow had especially patronized, and who repaid that lady for her kindness by an amount of outspoken eulogy which startled Kate by its audacity.

"That's just what I said. Do step into the drawing-room; you'll find her there, and you can make her answer for herself."
But Mr. Cheesacre didn't stir. Perhaps he wasn't willing to leave his friend with the widow.
At length the food was packed and Mrs. Greenow went upstairs with the two gentlemen. There they found Kate and two or three other ladies who had promised to come: including the two Miss Fairstairs, whom Mrs. Greenow had patronized, and who repaid that lady for her kindness by an amount of outspoken praise which startled Kate.


"Your dear aunt!" Fanny Fairstairs had said on coming into the room. "I don't think I ever came across a woman with such genuine milk of human kindness!"
"Nor with so much true wit," said her sister Charlotte,--who had been called Charlie on the sands of Yarmouth for the last twelve years.
When the widow came into the room, they flew at her and devoured her with kisses, and swore that they had never seen her looking so well. But as the bright new gloves which both the girls wore had been presents from Mrs. Greenow, they certainly did owe her some affection. There are not many ladies who would venture to bestow such gifts upon their friends after so very short an acquaintance; but Mrs. Greenow had a power that was quite her own in such matters. She was already on a very confidential footing with the Miss Fairstairs, and had given them much useful advice as to their future prospects.

"Your dear aunt!" Fanny Fairstairs had said on arriving. "I don't think I ever came across a woman with such milk of human kindness!"
"Or so much true wit," said her sister Charlotte - who had been called Charlie in Yarmouth for the last twelve years.
When the widow came into the room, they devoured her with kisses, and swore that they had never seen her looking so well. But as the girls' bright new gloves had been presents from Mrs. Greenow, they certainly did owe her some affection. Not many ladies would bestow such gifts upon their friends after so very short an acquaintance.


And then was there a Mrs. Green, whose husband was first-lieutenant on board a man-of-war on the West Indian Station. Mrs. Green was a quiet, ladylike little woman, rather pretty, very silent, and, as one would have thought, hardly adapted for the special intimacy of Mrs. Greenow. But Mrs. Greenow had found out that she was alone, not very rich, and in want of the solace of society. Therefore she had, from sheer good-nature, forced herself upon Mrs. Green, and Mrs. Green, with much trepidation, had consented to be taken to the picnic. "I know your husband would like it," Mrs. Greenow had said, "and I hope I may live to tell him that I made you go."
There came in also a brother of the Fairstairs girls, Joe Fairstairs, a lanky, useless, idle young man, younger than them, who was supposed to earn his bread in an attorney's office at Norwich, or rather to be preparing to earn it at some future time, and who was a heavy burden upon all his friends. "We told Joe to come to the house," said Fanny to the widow, apologetically, "because we thought he might be useful in carrying down the cloaks." Mrs. Greenow smiled graciously upon Joe, and assured him that she was charmed to see him, without any reference to such services as those mentioned.

And then was there a Mrs. Green, whose husband was first-lieutenant on board a man-of-war in the West Indies. Mrs. Green was a quiet, ladylike little woman, very silent, and, one would have thought, hardly adapted to be a friend of Mrs. Greenow. But Mrs. Greenow had found out that she was alone, not very rich, and in need of society. Therefore she had good-naturedly forced Mrs. Green to come to the picnic.
There came in also a younger brother of the Fairstairs girls, Joe Fairstairs, a lanky, useless, idle young man, who was supposed to earn his bread in an attorney's office at Norwich.
"We told Joe to come to the house," said Fanny to the widow, apologetically, "because we thought he might be useful in carrying the cloaks." Mrs. Greenow smiled graciously upon Joe, and assured him that she was charmed to see him.


And then they started. When they got to the door both Cheesacre and the captain made an attempt to get possession of the widow's arm. But she had it all arranged. Captain Bellfield found himself constrained to attend to Mrs. Green, while Mr. Cheesacre walked down to the beach beside Kate Vavasor. "I'll take your arm, Mr. Joe," said the widow, "and the girls shall come with us." But when they got to the boats, round which the other comers to the picnic were already assembled, Mr. Cheesacre,--although both the boats were for the day his own,--found himself separated from the widow. He got into that which contained Kate Vavasor, and was shoved off from the beach while he saw Captain Bellfield arranging Mrs. Greenow's drapery. He had declared to himself that it should be otherwise; and that as he had to pay the piper, the piper should play as he liked it. But Mrs. Greenow with a word or two had settled it all, and Mr. Cheesacre had found himself to be powerless. "How absurd Bellfield looks in that jacket, doesn't he?"

They set off. Both Cheesacre and the captain tried to take the widow's arm; but she had it all arranged.
"I'll take your arm, Mr. Joe," said she, and Captain Bellfield found himself obliged to attend to Mrs. Green, while Mr. Cheesacre walked to the beach beside Kate Vavasor.
When they got to the boats, where the other picnickers were assembled, Mr. Cheesacre found himself separated from the widow. He got into the boat which contained Kate Vavasor, and was shoved off from the beach while he saw Captain Bellfield arranging Mrs. Greenow's cloak.
"How absurd Bellfield looks in that jacket, doesn't he?"


he said to Kate, as he took his seat in the boat.
"Do you think so? I thought it was so very pretty and becoming for the occasion."
Mr. Cheesacre hated Captain Bellfield, and regretted more than ever that he had not done something for his own personal adornment. He could not endure to think that his friend, who paid for nothing, should carry away the honours of the morning and defraud him of the delights which should justly belong to him, "It may be becoming," said Cheesacre; "but don't you think it's awfully extravagant?"
"As to that I can't tell. You see I don't at all know what is the price of a jacket covered all over with little brass buttons."
"And the waistcoat, Miss Vavasor!" said Cheesacre, almost solemnly.
"The waistcoat I should think must have been expensive."

he said to Kate.
"Do you think so? I thought it very becoming for the occasion."
Mr. Cheesacre hated Captain Bellfield. He could not bear to think that his friend, who paid for nothing, should defraud him of the delights which should justly belong to him.
"It may be becoming," said he; "but it's dreadfully extravagant!


"Oh, dreadful! and he's got nothing, Miss Vavasor; literally nothing. Do you know,"--and he reduced his voice to a whisper as he made this communication,--"I lent him twenty pounds the day before yesterday; I did indeed. You won't mention it again, of course. I tell you, because, as you are seeing a good deal of him just now, I think it right that you should know on what sort of a footing he stands." It's all fair, they say, in love and war, and this small breach of confidence was, we must presume, a love stratagem on the part of Mr. Cheesacre. He was at this time smitten with the charms both of the widow and of the niece, and he constantly found that the captain was interfering with him on whichever side he turned himself. On the present occasion he had desired to take the widow for his share, and was, upon the whole, inclined to think that the widow was the more worthy of his attentions. He had made certain little inquiries within the last day or two, the answers to which had been satisfactory. These he had by no means communicated to his friend, to whom, indeed, he had expressed an opinion that Mrs. Greenow was after all only a flash in the pan.

and he's got no money, Miss Vavasor; literally nothing. Do you know," and he reduced his voice to a whisper, "I lent him twenty pounds the other day. As you are seeing a good deal of him just now, I think it right that you should know."
All's fair, they say, in love and war, and this small breach of confidence was a love stratagem. Mr. Cheesacre was smitten with the charms both of the widow and the niece, and he constantly found that the captain was interfering with him. On this occasion he had desired to take the widow for his share, and was, upon the whole, inclined to think she was the more worthy of his attentions.


"She does very well pour passer le temps," the captain had answered. Mr. Cheesacre had not quite understood the exact gist of the captain's meaning, but had felt certain that his friend was playing him false.
"I don't want it to be mentioned again, Miss Vavasor," he continued.
"Such things should not be mentioned at all," Kate replied, having been angered at the insinuation that the nature of Captain Bellfield's footing could be a matter of any moment to her.
"No, they shouldn't; and therefore I know that I'm quite safe with you, Miss Vavasor. He's a very pleasant fellow, very; and has seen the world,--uncommon; but he's better for eating and drinking with than he is for buying and selling with, as we say in Norfolk. Do you like Norfolk, Miss Vavasor?"
"I never was in it before, and now I've only seen Yarmouth."
"A nice place, Yarmouth, very; but you should come up and see our lands. I suppose you don't know that we feed one-third of England during the winter months."

"You won't mention it, of course, Miss Vavasor," he continued.
"Of course not."
"Bellfield's a very pleasant fellow, and has seen the world; but he's better for eating and drinking with than he is for buying and selling with, as we say in Norfolk. Do you like Norfolk, Miss Vavasor?"
"I never was here before, and I've only seen Yarmouth."
"A nice place, Yarmouth; but you should come and see our lands. We feed one-third of England during the winter months."


"Dear me!"
"We do, though; nobody knows what a county Norfolk is. Taking it altogether, including the game you know, and Lord Nelson, and its watering-places and the rest of it, I don't think there's a county in England to beat it. Fancy feeding one-third of all England and Wales!"
"With bread and cheese, do you mean, and those sort of things?"

"Dear me!"
"We do, though; altogether, I don't think there's a county in England to beat Norfolk.


"Beef!" said Mr. Cheesacre, and in his patriotic energy he repeated the word aloud. "Beef! Yes indeed; but if you were to tell them that in London they wouldn't believe you. Ah! you should certainly come down and see our lands. The 7.45 A.M. train would take you through Norwich to my door, as one may say, and you would be back by the 6.22 P.M." In this way he brought himself back again into good-humour, feeling, that in the absence of the widow, he could not do better than make progress with the niece.

Ah! you should certainly come and see our lands. The 7.45 a.m. train would take you through Norwich to my door, as one may say, and you would be back by the 6.22 p.m." In this way he brought himself back into good-humour, feeling that in the absence of the widow, he made good progress with the niece.


In the mean time Mrs. Greenow and the captain were getting on very comfortably in the other boat. "Take an oar, Captain," one of the men had said to him as soon as he had placed the ladies. "Not to-day, Jack," he had answered. "I'll content myself with being bo'san this morning." "The best thing as the bo'san does is to pipe all hands to grog," said the man. "I won't be behind in that either," said the captain; and so they all went on swimmingly.
"What a fine generous fellow your friend, Mr. Cheesacre, is!" said the widow.
"Yes, he is; he's a capital fellow in his way. Some of these Norfolk farmers are no end of good fellows."

In the meantime Mrs. Greenow and the captain were getting on very comfortably in the other boat.
"What a fine generous fellow your friend, Mr. Cheesacre, is!" said the widow.
"Yes; he's a capital fellow in his way, for a farmer."


"And I suppose he's something more than a common farmer. He's visited by the people about where he lives, isn't he?"
"Oh, yes, in a sort of a way. The county people, you know, keep themselves very much to themselves."
"That's of course. But his house;--he has a good sort of place, hasn't he?"
"Yes, yes;--a very good house;--a little too near to the horse-pond for my taste. But when a man gets his money out of the till, he mustn't be ashamed of the counter;--must he, Mrs. Greenow?"
"But he could live like a gentleman if he let his own land, couldn't he?"

"I suppose he's something more than a common farmer. He has a good sort of place, hasn't he?"
"Yes, yes; a very good house; - a little too near to the horse-pond for my taste."


"That depends upon how a gentleman wishes to live." Here the privacy of their conversation was interrupted by an exclamation from a young lady to the effect that Charlie Fairstairs was becoming sick. This Charlie stoutly denied, and proved the truth of her assertion by her behaviour. Soon after this they completed their marine adventures, and prepared to land close to the spot at which the banquet was prepared.

Here they were interrupted by an exclamation from a young lady that Charlie Fairstairs was feeling sick; and they prepared to land close to the spot at which the banquet was prepared.


There had been a pretence of fishing, but no fish had been caught. It was soon found that such an amusement would interfere with the ladies' dresses, and the affairs had become too serious to allow of any trivial interruption. "I really think, Mr. Cheesacre," an anxious mother had said, "that you'd better give it up. The water off the nasty cord has got all over Maria's dress, already." Maria made a faint protest that it did not signify in the least; but the fishing was given up,--not without an inward feeling on the part of Mr. Cheesacre that if Maria chose to come out with him in his boat, having been invited especially to fish, she ought to have put up with the natural results. "There are people who like to take everything and never like to give anything," he said to Kate afterwards, as he was walking up with her to the picnic dinner. But he was unreasonable and unjust. The girls had graced his party with their best hats and freshest muslins, not that they might see him catch a mackerel, but that they might flirt and dance to the best advantage. "You can't suppose that any girl will like to be drenched with sea-water when she has taken so much trouble with her starch," said Kate. "Then she shouldn't come fishing," said Mr. Cheesacre.

There had been a pretence of fishing, but no fish had been caught. Water got over the ladies' dresses, and the fishing was given up, to Mr. Cheesacre's indignation.
"Some people like to take everything and never give anything," he said to Kate afterwards, as he was walking with her to the picnic dinner.
"You can't suppose that any girl will like to be drenched with sea-water when she has taken so much trouble with her dress," said Kate.
"Then she shouldn't come fishing," said Mr. Cheesacre.


"I hate such airs."
But when they arrived at the old boat, Mrs. Greenow shone forth pre-eminently as the mistress of the occasion, altogether overshadowing Mr. Cheesacre by the extent of her authority. There was a little contest for supremacy between them, invisible to the eyes of the multitude; but Mr. Cheesacre in such a matter had not a chance against Mrs. Greenow. I am disposed to think that she would have reigned even though she had not contributed to the eatables; but with that point in her favour, she was able to make herself supreme. Jeannette, too, was her servant, which was a great thing. Mr. Cheesacre soon gave way; and though he bustled about and was conspicuous, he bustled about in obedience to orders received, and became a head servant. Captain Bellfield also made himself useful, but he drove Mr. Cheesacre into paroxysms of suppressed anger by giving directions, and by having those directions obeyed. A man to whom he had lent twenty pounds the day before yesterday, and who had not contributed so much as a bottle of champagne!
"We're to dine at four, and now it's half-past three," said Mrs. Greenow, addressing herself to the multitude.
"And to begin to dance at six," said an eager young lady.

"I hate such airs."
When they arrived at the old boat, Mrs. Greenow was the mistress of the occasion, altogether overshadowing Mr. Cheesacre. There was a little contest for supremacy between them, invisible to most eyes; but Mr. Cheesacre had not a chance against Mrs. Greenow. He soon gave way; and though he bustled about, it was in obedience to her orders. Captain Bellfield also made himself useful, but he drove Mr. Cheesacre into paroxysms of suppressed anger by giving directions. A man to whom he had lent twenty pounds, and who had not contributed so much as a bottle of champagne!
"We're to dine at four," said Mrs. Greenow.
"And we begin to dance at six," said an eager young lady.


"Maria, hold your tongue," said the young lady's mother.
"Yes, we'll dine at four," said Mr. Cheesacre. "And as for the music, I've ordered it to be here punctual at half-past five. We're to have three horns, cymbals, triangle, and a drum."
"How very nice; isn't it, Mrs. Greenow?" said Charlie Fairstairs.
"And now suppose we begin to unpack," said Captain Bellfield. "Half the fun is in arranging the things."
"Oh, dear, yes; more than half," said Fanny Fairstairs.

"Maria, hold your tongue," said the young lady's mother.
"Yes, we'll dine at four," said Mr. Cheesacre. "And as for the music, I've ordered it to be here punctual at half-past five. We're to have three horns, cymbals, triangle, and a drum."
"How very nice; isn't it, Mrs. Greenow?" said Charlie Fairstairs.
"And now suppose we unpack," said Captain Bellfield.


"Bellfield, don't mind about the hampers," said Cheesacre. "Wine is a ticklish thing to handle, and there's my man there to manage it."
"It's odd if I don't know more about wine than the boots from the hotel," said Bellfield. This allusion to the boots almost cowed Mr. Cheesacre, and made him turn away, leaving Bellfield with the widow.

"Bellfield, don't mind about the hampers," said Cheesacre. "Wine is a ticklish thing to handle, and there's my man there to manage it."
"I know more about wine than the boot-man from the hotel," said Bellfield. This made Mr. Cheesacre turn away, leaving Bellfield with the widow.


There was a great unpacking, during which Captain Bellfield and Mrs. Greenow constantly had their heads in the same hamper. I by no means intend to insinuate that there was anything wrong in this. People engaged together in unpacking pies and cold chickens must have their heads in the same hamper. But a great intimacy was thereby produced, and the widow seemed to have laid aside altogether that prejudice of hers with reference to the washerwoman. There was a long table placed on the sand, sheltered by the upturned boat from the land side, but open towards the sea, and over this, supported on poles, there was an awning. Upon the whole the arrangement was not an uncomfortable one for people who had selected so very uncomfortable a dining-room as the sand of the sea-shore. Much was certainly due to Mr. Cheesacre for the expenditure he had incurred,--and something perhaps to Captain Bellfield for his ingenuity in having suggested it.

There was a great unpacking, during which Captain Bellfield and Mrs. Greenow constantly had their heads in the same hamper. There was nothing wrong in this. People engaged together in unpacking pies and cold chickens must have their heads in the same hamper. But the widow seemed to have laid aside her prejudice regarding the washerwoman.
There was a long table placed on the sand, with an awning over it. On the whole it was a more comfortable arrangement than might be expected; and this owed much to Mr. Cheesacre's expenditure.


Now came the placing of the guests for dinner, and Mr. Cheesacre made another great effort. "I'll tell you what," he said, aloud, "Bellfield and I will take the two ends of the table, and Mrs. Greenow shall sit at my right hand." This was not only boldly done, but there was a propriety in it which at first sight seemed to be irresistible. Much as he had hated and did hate the captain, he had skilfully made the proposition in such a way as to flatter him, and it seemed for a few moments as though he were going to have it all his own way. But Captain Bellfield was not a man to submit to defeat in such a matter as this without an effort. "I don't think that will do," said he. "Mrs. Greenow gives the dinner, and Cheesacre gives the wine. We must have them at the two ends of the table. I am sure Mrs. Greenow won't refuse to allow me to hand her to the place which belongs to her. I will sit at her right hand and be her minister."

With the placing of the guests for dinner, Mr. Cheesacre made another great effort.
"Bellfield and I will take the two ends of the table," he announced, "and Mrs. Greenow shall sit at my right hand."
"I don't think that will do," said Captain Bellfield. "Mrs. Greenow gives the dinner, and Cheesacre gives the wine. We must have them at the two ends of the table. I will sit at her right hand."


Mrs. Greenow did not refuse,--and so the matter was adjusted.
Mr. Cheesacre took his seat in despair. It was nothing to him that he had Kate Vavasor at his left hand. He liked talking to Kate very well, but he could not enjoy that pleasure while Captain Bellfield was in the very act of making progress with the widow. "One would think that he had given it himself; wouldn't you?" he said to Maria's mother, who sat at his right hand.
The lady did not in the least understand him. "Given what?" said she.

Mrs. Greenow did not refuse, and so the matter was settled.
Mr. Cheesacre took his seat in despair. It was nothing to him that he had Kate Vavasor beside him. He liked talking to Kate, but he could not enjoy himself while Captain Bellfield was talking to the widow.
"One would think that he had given it himself; wouldn't you?" he said to Maria's mother, who sat on his right.
"Given what?" said she.


"Why, the music and the wine and all the rest of it. There are some people full of that kind of impudence. How they manage to carry it on without ever paying a shilling, I never could tell. I know I have to pay my way, and something over and beyond generally."
Maria's mother said, "Yes, indeed." She had other daughters there besides Maria, and was looking down the table to see whether they were judiciously placed. Her beauty, her youngest one, Ophelia, was sitting next to that ne'er-do-well Joe Fairstairs, and this made her unhappy. "Ophelia, my dear, you are dreadfully in the draught; there's a seat up here, just opposite, where you'll be more comfortable."
"There's no draught here, mamma," said Ophelia, without the slightest sign of moving. Perhaps Ophelia liked the society of that lanky, idle, useless young man.

"Why, the music and the wine and all the rest of it. There are some people full of that kind of impudence, who never pay a shilling. I pay my way."
Maria's mother said, "Yes, indeed." She had other daughters there besides Maria, and her youngest and prettiest one, Ophelia, was sitting next to that ne'er-do-well Joe Fairstairs. "Ophelia, my dear, you are dreadfully in the draught; there's a seat up here where you'll be more comfortable."
"There's no draught here, mamma," said Ophelia, without moving.


The mirth of the table certainly came from Mrs. Greenow's end. The widow had hardly taken her place before she got up again and changed with the captain. It was found that the captain could better carve the great grouse pie from the end than from the side. Cheesacre, when he saw this, absolutely threw down his knife and fork violently upon the table. "Is anything the matter?" said Maria's mother.

The mirth of the table certainly came from Mrs. Greenow's end. The widow got up and changed places with the captain, so that he could carve the great grouse pie. Cheesacre, when he saw this, absolutely threw down his knife and fork violently upon the table.
"Is anything the matter?" said Maria's mother.


"Matter!" said he. Then he shook his head in grief of heart and vexation of spirit, and resumed his knife and fork. Kate watched it all, and was greatly amused. "I never saw a man so nearly broken-hearted," she said, in her letter to Alice the next day. "Eleven, thirteen, eighteen, twenty-one," said Cheesacre to himself, reckoning up in his misery the number of pounds sterling which he would have to pay for being ill-treated in this way.
"Ladies and gentlemen," said Captain Bellfield, as soon as the eating was over, "if I may be permitted to get upon my legs for two minutes, I am going to propose a toast to you." The real patron of the feast had actually not yet swallowed his last bit of cheese. The thing was indecent in the violence of its injustice.
[Illustration: Captain Bellfield proposes a toast.]

"Matter!" said he. Then he shook his head in grief and vexation.
Kate watched it all, and was greatly amused. "I never saw a man so nearly broken-hearted," she said, in her letter to Alice the next day.
"Ladies and gentlemen," said Captain Bellfield, as soon as the eating was over, "I am going to propose a toast." Mr. Cheesacre had actually not yet swallowed his last bit of cheese. The thing was indecent in its injustice.


"If you please, Captain Bellfield," said the patron, indifferent to the cheese in his throat, "I'll propose the toast."
"Nothing on earth could be better, my dear fellow," said the captain, "and I'm sure I should be the last man in the world to take the job out of the hands of one who would do it so much better than I can; but as it's your health that we're going to drink, I really don't see how you are to do it."

"If you please, Captain Bellfield," said he, "I'll propose the toast."
"Nothing on earth could be better, my dear fellow," said the captain, "but as it's your health that we're going to drink, I don't see how you are to do it."


Cheesacre grunted and sat down. He certainly could not propose his own health, nor did he complain of the honour that was to be done him. It was very proper that his health should be drunk, and he had now to think of the words in which he would return thanks. But the extent of his horror may be imagined when Bellfield got up and made a most brilliant speech in praise of Mrs. Greenow. For full five minutes he went on without mentioning the name of Cheesacre. Yarmouth, he said, had never in his days been so blessed as it had been this year by the presence of the lady who was now with them. She had come among them, he declared, forgetful of herself and of her great sorrows, with the sole desire of adding something to the happiness of others. Then Mrs. Greenow had taken out her pocket-handkerchief, sweeping back the broad ribbons of her cap over her shoulders. Altogether the scene was very affecting, and Cheesacre was driven to madness. They were the very words that he had intended to speak himself.

Cheesacre grunted and sat down. He certainly could not propose his own health, nor could he complain of the honour. He had now to think of the words in which he would return thanks.
But the extent of his horror may be imagined when Bellfield got up and made a most brilliant speech in praise of Mrs. Greenow. For full five minutes he went on without mentioning Cheesacre. Yarmouth, he said, had never been so blessed as it had been this year by the presence of the lady who was now with them. She had come among them, he declared, forgetful of herself and of her great sorrows, with the sole desire of adding something to the happiness of others.
Altogether the scene was very affecting, and Cheesacre was driven to madness. They were the very words that he had intended to speak himself.


"I hate all this kind of thing," he said to Kate. "It's so fulsome."
"After-dinner speeches never mean anything," said Kate.
At last, when Bellfield had come to an end of praising Mrs. Greenow, he told the guests that he wished to join his friend Mr. Cheesacre in the toast, the more so as it could hardly be hoped that Mrs. Greenow would herself rise to return thanks. There was no better fellow than his friend Cheesacre, whom he had known for he would not say how many years. He was quite sure they would all have the most sincere pleasure in joining the health of Mr. Cheesacre with that of Mrs. Greenow. Then there was a clattering of glasses and a murmuring of healths, and Mr. Cheesacre slowly got upon his legs.
"I'm very much obliged to this company," said he, "and to my friend Bellfield, who really is,--but perhaps that doesn't signify now. I've had the greatest pleasure in getting up this little thing, and I'd made up my mind to propose Mrs. Greenow's health; but, h'm, ha, no doubt it has been in better hands. Perhaps, considering all things, Bellfield might have waited."

"I hate all this kind of thing," he said to Kate.
"After-dinner speeches never mean anything," said Kate.
At last, when Bellfield had finished praising Mrs. Greenow, he told the guests that he wished to join his friend Mr. Cheesacre in the toast. There was no better fellow than his friend Cheesacre, whom he had known for many years. There was a clattering of glasses and a murmuring of healths, and Mr. Cheesacre slowly got upon his legs.
"I'm very much obliged to this company," said he, "and to my friend Bellfield. I've had the greatest pleasure in getting up this little thing, and I'd made up my mind to propose Mrs. Greenow's health; but, no doubt it has been in better hands. Perhaps Bellfield might have waited."


"With such a subject on my hands, I couldn't wait a moment."
"I didn't interrupt you, Captain Bellfield, and perhaps you'll let me go on without interrupting me. We've all drunk Mrs. Greenow's health, and I'm sure she's very much obliged. So am I for the honour you've done me. I have taken some trouble in getting up this little thing, and I hope you like it. I think somebody said something about liberality. I beg to assure you that I don't think of that for a moment. Somebody must pay for these sort of things, and I'm always very glad to take my turn. I dare say Bellfield will give us the next picnic, and if he'll appoint a day before the end of the month, I shall be happy to be one of the party." Then he sat down with some inward satisfaction, fully convinced that he had given his enemy a fatal blow.

"I couldn't wait a moment."
"I didn't interrupt you, Captain Bellfield, and perhaps you'll let me go on without interrupting me. We've all drunk Mrs. Greenow's health, and I'm sure she's very much obliged. So am I for the honour you've done me. I have taken some trouble in getting up this little thing, and I hope you like it. I think somebody said something about liberality. I beg to assure you that I don't think of that for a moment. Somebody must pay for these sort of things, and I'm always very glad to take my turn. I dare say Bellfield will give us the next picnic, and if he'll appoint a day before the end of the month, I shall be happy to be one of the party." Then he sat down with some satisfaction, fully convinced that he had given his enemy a fatal blow.


"Nothing on earth would give me so much pleasure," said Bellfield. After that he turned again to Mrs. Greenow and went on with his private conversation.
There was no more speaking, nor was there much time for other after-dinner ceremonies. The three horns, the cymbals, the triangle, and the drum were soon heard tuning-up behind the banqueting-hall, and the ladies went to the further end of the old boat to make their preparations for the dance. Then it was that the thoughtful care of Mrs. Greenow, in having sent Jeannette with brushes, combs, clean handkerchiefs, and other little knick-knackeries, became so apparent. It was said that the widow herself actually changed her cap,--which was considered by some to be very unfair, as there had been an understanding that there should be no dressing. On such occasions ladies are generally willing to forego the advantage of dressing on the condition that other ladies shall forego the same advantage; but when this compact is broken by any special lady, the treason is thought to be very treacherous. It is as though a fencer should remove the button from the end of his foil. But Mrs. Greenow was so good-natured in tendering the services of Jeannette to all the young ladies, and was so willing to share with others those good things of the toilet which her care had provided, that her cap was forgiven her by the most of those present.

"Nothing on earth would give me so much pleasure," said Bellfield. He turned back to his conversation with Mrs. Greenow.
There was no more speaking, for the three horns, the cymbals, the triangle, and the drum were soon heard tuning-up, and the ladies went to the further end of the old boat to get ready for the dance. Then the thoughtful care of Mrs. Greenow, in having sent Jeannette with brushes, combs, and so on, became apparent. The widow good-naturedly offered the services of Jeannette to all the young ladies, so that they forgave her for changing her own cap.


When ladies have made up their minds to dance they will dance let the circumstances of the moment be ever so antagonistic to that exercise. A ploughed field in February would not be too wet, nor the side of a house too uneven. In honest truth the sands of the seashore are not adapted for the exercise. It was all very well for Venus to make the promise, but when making it she knew that Adonis would not keep her to her word. Let any lightest-limbed nymph try it, and she will find that she leaves most palpable footing. The sands in question were doubtless compact, firm, and sufficiently moist to make walking on them comfortable; but they ruffled themselves most uncomfortably under the unwonted pressure to which they were subjected. Nevertheless our friends did dance on the sands; finding, however, that quadrilles and Sir Roger de Coverley suited them better than polkas and waltzes.
"No, my friend, no," Mrs. Greenow said to Mr. Cheesacre when that gentleman endeavoured to persuade her to stand up; "Kate will be delighted I am sure to join you,--but as for me, you must excuse me."
But Mr. Cheesacre was not inclined at that moment to ask Kate Vavasor to dance with him. He was possessed by an undefined idea that Kate had snubbed him, and as Kate's fortune was, as he said, literally nothing, he was not at all disposed to court her favour at the expense of such suffering to himself.

When ladies have made up their minds to dance, they will dance no matter what. A ploughed field in February would not be too wet. In truth the Yarmouth sands were not adapted for the exercise; nevertheless our friends danced; finding, however, that sedate dances were easier than polkas and waltzes.
"No, my friend," Mrs. Greenow said to Mr. Cheesacre when he asked her to dance. "I am sure Kate will be delighted to join you, but you must excuse me."
However, Mr. Cheesacre had a vague idea that Kate had snubbed him, and had no intention of courting her favour.


"I'm not quite sure that I'll dance myself," said he, seating himself in a corner of the tent by Mrs. Greenow's side. Captain Bellfield at that moment was seen leading Miss Vavasor away to a new place on the sands, whither he was followed by a score of dancers; and Mr. Cheesacre saw that now at last he might reap the reward for which he had laboured. He was alone with the widow, and having been made bold by wine, had an opportunity of fighting his battle, than which none better could ever be found. He was himself by no means a poor man, and he despised poverty in others. It was well that there should be poor gentry, in order that they might act as satellites to those who, like himself, had money. As to Mrs. Greenow's money, there was no doubt. He knew it all to a fraction. She had spread for herself, or some one else had spread for her, a report that her wealth was almost unlimited; but the forty thousand pounds was a fact, and any such innocent fault as that little fiction might well be forgiven to a woman endorsed with such substantial virtues. And she was handsome too. Mr. Cheesacre, as he regarded her matured charms, sometimes felt that he should have been smitten even without the forty thousand pounds.

"I'm not sure that I'll dance myself," said he, seating himself by Mrs. Greenow's side under the canvas awning. Captain Bellfield led Miss Vavasor away to a new place on the sands, where he was followed by a score of dancers; and Mr. Cheesacre was alone with the widow at last.
He was by no means a poor man, and he despised poverty in others. He knew Mrs. Greenow's money to a penny. And she was handsome too. Mr. Cheesacre felt that he should have been smitten even without the forty thousand pounds.


"By George! there's flesh and blood," he had once said to his friend Bellfield before he had begun to suspect that man's treachery. His admiration must then have been sincere, for at that time the forty thousand pounds was not an ascertained fact. Looking at the matter in all its bearings Mr. Cheesacre thought that he couldn't do better. His wooing should be fair, honest, and above board. He was a thriving man, and what might not they two do in Norfolk if they put their wealth together?
"Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, you should join them," said Mrs. Greenow; "they'll not half enjoy themselves without you. Kate will think that you mean to neglect her."
"I shan't dance, Mrs. Greenow, unless you like to stand up for a set."

All in all, he thought that he couldn't do better. He was a thriving man, and what might not they two do in Norfolk if they put their wealth together?
"Oh, Mr. Cheesacre," said Mrs. Greenow, "they'll not enjoy themselves without you. Kate will think that you mean to neglect her."
"I shan't dance, Mrs. Greenow, unless you like to stand up."


"No, my friend, no; I shall not do that. I fear you forget how recent has been my bereavement. Your asking me is the bitterest reproach to me for having ventured to join your festive board."
"Upon my honour I didn't mean it, Mrs. Greenow. I didn't mean it, indeed."
"I do not suspect you. It would have been unmanly."
"And nobody can say that of me. There isn't a man or woman in Norfolk that wouldn't say I was manly."
"I'm quite sure of that."

"No, my friend. I fear you forget my recent bereavement. Your asking me is the bitterest reproach to me for having ventured to join your party."
"Upon my honour I didn't mean it, Mrs. Greenow."
"I do not suspect you. It would have been unmanly."
"And nobody can say that of me. There isn't a man or woman in Norfolk that wouldn't say I was manly."
"I'm quite sure of that."


"I have my faults, I'm aware."
"And what are your faults, Mr. Cheesacre?"
"Well; perhaps I'm extravagant. But it's only in these kind of things you know, when I spend a little money for the sake of making my friends happy. When I'm about, on the lands at home, I ain't extravagant, I can tell you."
"Extravagance is a great vice."
"Oh, I ain't extravagant in that sense;--not a bit in the world. But when a man's enamoured, and perhaps looking out for a wife, he does like to be a little free, you know."
"And are you looking out for a wife, Mr. Cheesacre?"
"If I told you I suppose you'd only laugh at me."

"I have my faults, I'm aware."
"And what are your faults, Mr. Cheesacre?"
"Well; perhaps I'm extravagant. But it's only in these kind of things you know, when I want to make my friends happy. When I'm at home, I ain't extravagant. But when a man's enamoured, and perhaps looking out for a wife, he does like to be a little free, you know."
"And are you looking out for a wife, Mr. Cheesacre?"
"If I told you, you'd only laugh at me."


"No; indeed I would not. I am not given to joking when any one that I regard speaks to me seriously."
"Ain't you though? I'm so glad of that. When one has really got a serious thing to say, one doesn't like to have fun poked at one."
"And, besides, how could I laugh at marriages, seeing how happy I have been in that condition?--so--very--happy," and Mrs. Greenow put up her handkerchief to her eyes.
"So happy that you'll try it again some day; won't you?"

"No; indeed. How could I laugh at marriages, seeing how happy I have been in mine? " and Mrs. Greenow put her handkerchief to her eyes.
"So happy that you'll try it again some day?"


"Never, Mr. Cheesacre; never. Is that the way you talk of serious things without joking? Anything like love--love of that sort--is over for me. It lies buried under the sod with my poor dear departed saint."
"But, Mrs. Greenow,"--and Cheesacre, as he prepared to argue the question with her, got nearer to her in the corner behind the table,--"But, Mrs. Greenow, care killed a cat, you know."
"And sometimes I think that care will kill me."
"No, by George; not if I can prevent it."
"You're very kind, Mr. Cheesacre; but there's no preventing such care as mine."

"Never, Mr. Cheesacre. Love is over for me, buried with my dear departed saint."
"But, Mrs. Greenow," and Cheesacre came closer to her, "Mrs. Greenow,


"Isn't there though? I'll tell you what, Mrs. Greenow; I'm in earnest, I am indeed. If you'll inquire, you'll find there isn't a fellow in Norfolk pays his way better than I do, or is better able to do it. I don't pay a sixpence of rent, and I sit upon seven hundred acres of as good land as there is in the county. There's not an acre that won't do me a bullock and a half. Just put that and that together, and see what it comes to. And, mind you, some of these fellows that farm their own land are worse off than if they'd rent to pay. They've borrowed so much to carry on with, that the interest is more than rent. I don't owe a sixpence to ere a man or ere a company in the world. I can walk into every bank in Norwich without seeing my master.

I'm in earnest, I am indeed. There isn't a fellow in Norfolk pays his way better than I do. I don't pay a sixpence of rent, and I have seven hundred acres of as good land as there is in the county.


There ain't any of my paper flying about, Mrs. Greenow. I'm Samuel Cheesacre of Oileymead, and it's all my own." Mr. Cheesacre, as he thus spoke of his good fortunes and firm standing in the world, became impetuous in the energy of the moment, and brought down his fist powerfully on the slight table before them. The whole fabric rattled, and the boat resounded, but the noise he had made seemed to assist him. "It's all my own, Mrs. Greenow, and the half of it shall be yours if you'll please to take it;" then he stretched out his hand to her, not as though he intended to grasp hers in a grasp of love, but as if he expected some hand-pledge from her as a token that she accepted the bargain.
"If you'd known Greenow, Mr. Cheesacre--"
"I've no doubt he was a very good sort of man."
"If you'd known him, you would not have addressed me in this way."

I'm Samuel Cheesacre of Oileymead, and it's all my own." Mr. Cheesacre brought down his fist powerfully on the slight table. "It's all my own, Mrs. Greenow, and the half of it shall be yours if you'll please to take it." He stretched out his hand to her, as if he expected her to shake it in acceptance of the bargain.
"If you'd known Greenow, Mr. Cheesacre, you would not have addressed me in this way."


"What difference would that make? My idea is that care killed a cat, as I said before. I never knew what was the good of being unhappy. If I find early mangels don't do on a bit of land, then I sow late turnips; and never cry after spilt milk. Greenow was the early mangels; I'll be the late turnips. Come then, say the word. There ain't a bedroom in my house,--not one of the front ones,--that isn't mahogany furnished!"
"What's furniture to me?" said Mrs. Greenow, with her handkerchief to her eyes.

"What difference would that make? I never knew what was the good of being unhappy, or crying over spilt milk. Come, say the word. There ain't a bedroom in my house - the front ones - that isn't mahogany furnished!"
"What's furniture to me?" said Mrs. Greenow, with her handkerchief to her eyes.


Just at this moment Maria's mother stepped in under the canvas. It was most inopportune. Mr. Cheesacre felt that he was progressing well, and was conscious that he had got safely over those fences in the race which his bashfulness would naturally make difficult to him. He knew that he had done this under the influence of the champagne, and was aware that it might not be easy to procure again a combination of circumstances that would be so beneficial to him. But now he was interrupted just as he was expecting success. He was interrupted, and felt himself to be looking like a guilty creature under the eye of the strange lady. He had not a word to say; but drawing himself suddenly a foot and half away from the widow's side, sat there confessing his guilt in his face.
Mrs. Greenow felt no guilt, and was afraid of no strange eyes. "Mr. Cheesacre and I are talking about farming," she said.

Just at this moment Maria's mother stepped in under the canvas. It was most inopportune. Mr. Cheesacre felt that he was progressing well. But now he was interrupted just as he was expecting success, and he drew suddenly away from the widow's side, and sat there confessing his guilt in his face.
Mrs. Greenow felt no guilt, and was afraid of no strange eyes. "Mr. Cheesacre and I are talking about farming," she said


"Oh; farming!" answered Maria's mother.
"Mr. Cheesacre thinks that turnips are better than early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow.
"Yes, I do," said Cheesacre,
"I prefer the early mangels," said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think nature ever intended those late crops. What do you say, Mrs. Walker?"
"I daresay Mr. Cheesacre understands what he's about when he's at home," said the lady.
"I know what a bit of land can do as well as any man in Norfolk," said the gentleman.
"It may be very well in Norfolk," said Mrs. Greenow, rising from her seat; "but the practice isn't thought much of in the other counties with which I am better acquainted."


"I'd just come in to say that I thought we might be getting to the boats," said Mrs. Walker. "My Ophelia is so delicate." At this moment the delicate Ophelia was to be seen, under the influence of the music, taking a distant range upon the sands with Joe Fairstairs' arm round her waist. The attitude was justified by the tune that was in progress, and there is no reason why a galop on the sands should have any special termination in distance, as it must have in a room. But, under such circumstances, Mrs. Walker's solicitude was not unreasonable.
The erratic steps of the distant dancers were recalled and preparations were made for the return journey. Others had strayed besides the delicate Ophelia and the idle Joe, and some little time was taken up in collecting the party. The boats had to be drawn down, and the boatmen fetched from their cans and tobacco-pipes. "I hope they're sober," said Mrs. Walker, with a look of great dismay.
"Sober as judges," said Bellfield, who had himself been looking after the remains of Mr. Cheesacre's hampers, while that gentleman had been so much better engaged in the tent.

"I'd just come in to say that I thought we might be getting to the boats," said Mrs. Walker. "My Ophelia is so delicate." At this moment the delicate Ophelia was to be seen distantly upon the sands with Joe Fairstairs' arm round her waist, so Mrs. Walker's solicitude was not unreasonable.
The distant dancers were recalled and preparations were made for the return journey. Others had strayed besides the delicate Ophelia and the idle Joe, and it took some time to collect the party.


"Because," continued Mrs. Walker, "I know that they play all manner of tricks when they're--in liquor. They'd think nothing of taking us out to sea, Mrs. Greenow."
"Oh, I do wish they would," said Ophelia.
"Ophelia, mind you come in the boat with me," said her mother, and she looked very savage when she gave the order. It was Mrs. Walker's intention that that boat should not carry Joe Fairstairs. But Joe and her daughter together were too clever for her. When the boats went off she found herself to be in that one over which Mr. Cheesacre presided, while the sinning Ophelia with her good-for-nothing admirer were under the more mirthful protection of Captain Bellfield.

"Ophelia, mind you come in the boat with me," said her mother. But Joe Fairstairs and her daughter were too clever for her. When the boats went off she found herself to be in Mr. Cheesacre's, while Ophelia and her admirer were under the protection of Captain Bellfield.


"Mamma will be so angry," said Ophelia, "and it was all your fault. I did mean to go into the other boat. Don't, Mr. Fairstairs." Then they got settled down in their seats, to the satisfaction, let us hope, of them both.
Mr. Cheesacre had vainly endeavoured to arrange that Mrs. Greenow should return with him. But not only was Captain Bellfield opposed to such a change in their positions, but so also was Mrs. Greenow. "I think we'd better go back as we came," she said, giving her hand to the Captain.

Mr. Cheesacre had vainly tried to arrange that Mrs. Greenow should return with him. But the widow said, "I think we'd better go back as we came," and gave her hand to the Captain.


"Oh, certainly," said Captain Bellfield. "Why should there be any change? Cheesacre, old fellow, mind you look after Mrs. Walker. Come along, my hearty." It really almost appeared that Captain Bellfield was addressing Mrs. Greenow as "his hearty," but it must be presumed that the term of genial endearment was intended for the whole boat's load. Mrs. Greenow took her place on the comfortable broad bench in the stern, and Bellfield seated himself beside her, with the tiller in his hand.
"If you're going to steer, Captain Bellfield, I beg that you'll be careful."
"Careful,--and with you on board!" said the Captain. "Don't you know that I would sooner perish beneath the waves than that a drop of water should touch you roughly?"

"Certainly," said Captain Bellfield. "Cheesacre, old fellow, mind you look after Mrs. Walker. Come along, my hearty." Mrs. Greenow took her place in the stern, and Bellfield sat beside her, with the tiller in his hand.
"If you're going to steer, Captain Bellfield, I beg that you'll be careful."
"Careful!" said the Captain. "Don't you know that I would sooner perish beneath the waves than that a drop of water should touch you roughly?"


"But you see, we might perish beneath the waves together."
"Together! What a sweet word that is;--perish together! If it were not that there might be something better even than that, I would wish to perish in such company."
"But I should not wish anything of the kind, Captain Bellfield, and therefore pray be careful."
There was no perishing by water on that occasion. Mr. Cheesacre's boat reached the pier at Yarmouth first, and gave up its load without accident. Very shortly afterwards Captain Bellfield's crew reached the same place in the same state of preservation. "There," said he, as he handed out Mrs. Greenow. "I have brought you to no harm, at any rate as yet."

"But you see, we might perish beneath the waves together."
"Together! What a sweet word that is; perish together! Were it not that there might be something better even than that, I would wish to perish in such company."
"But I should not wish anything of the kind, Captain Bellfield."
There was no perishing by water on that occasion. Captain Bellfield's boat reached the pier at Yarmouth very shortly after Mr. Cheesacre's.
"There," said the Captain, as he handed out Mrs. Greenow. "I have brought you to no harm."


"And, as I hope, will not do so hereafter."
"May the heavens forbid it, Mrs. Greenow! Whatever may be our lots hereafter,--yours I mean and mine,--I trust that yours may be free from all disaster. Oh, that I might venture to hope that, at some future day, the privilege might be mine of protecting you from all danger!"
"I can protect myself very well, I can assure you. Good night, Captain Bellfield. We won't take you and Mr. Cheesacre out of your way;--will we, Kate? We have had a most pleasant day."

"And, I hope, will not do so hereafter."
"Heavens forbid, Mrs. Greenow! I trust that your lot may be free from all disaster. Oh, that I might venture to hope that, at some future day, I might have the privilege of protecting you from all danger!"
"I can protect myself very well, I can assure you. Good night, Captain Bellfield. We won't take you and Mr. Cheesacre out of your way, will we, Kate? We have had a most pleasant day."


They were now upon the esplanade, and Mrs. Greenow's house was to the right, whereas the lodgings of both the gentlemen were to the left. Each of them fought hard for the privilege of accompanying the widow to her door; but Mrs. Greenow was self-willed, and upon this occasion would have neither of them. "Mr. Joe Fairstairs must pass the house," said she, "and he will see us home. Mr. Cheesacre, good night. Indeed you shall not;--not a step." There was that in her voice which induced Mr. Cheesacre to obey her, and which made Captain Bellfield aware that he would only injure his cause if he endeavoured to make further progress in it on the present occasion.
"Well, Kate, what do you think of the day?" the aunt said when she was alone with her niece.

Each of the gentlemen fought for the privilege of accompanying the widow to her door; but Mrs. Greenow would have neither of them.
"Mr. Joe Fairstairs will see us home. Mr. Cheesacre, good night. Indeed you shall not; -not a step." There was that in her voice which induced both men to obey.
"Well, Kate, what do you think of the day?" the aunt said when she was alone with her niece.


"I never think much about such days, aunt. It was all very well, but I fear I have not the temperament fitted for enjoying the fun. I envied Ophelia Walker because she made herself thoroughly happy."
"I do like to see girls enjoy themselves," said Mrs. Greenow, "I do, indeed;--and young men too. It seems so natural; why shouldn't young people flirt?"
"Or old people either for the matter of that?"

"It was all very well, aunt, but I fear I have not the temperament fitted for enjoying the fun. I envied Ophelia Walker because she made herself thoroughly happy."
"I do like to see girls enjoy themselves," said Mrs. Greenow, "and young men too. It seems so natural; why shouldn't young people flirt?"
"Or old people either for that matter?"


"Or old people either,--if they don't do any harm to anybody. I'll tell you what it is, Kate; people have become so very virtuous, that they're driven into all manner of abominable resources for amusement and occupation. If I had sons and daughters I should think a little flirting the very best thing for them as a safety valve. When people get to be old, there's a difficulty. They want to flirt with the young people and the young people don't want them. If the old people would be content to flirt together, I don't see why they should ever give it up;--till they're obliged to give up every thing, and go away."
That was Mrs. Greenow's doctrine on the subject of flirtation.

"Or old people either, if they don't do any harm to anybody. If I had sons and daughters I should think a little flirting the very best thing for them as a safety valve. When people get to be old, if they want to flirt together, I don't see why they should give it up."
This was Mrs. Greenow's doctrine on the subject of flirtation.


I cannot say that the house in Queen Anne Street was a pleasant house. I am now speaking of the material house, made up of the walls and furniture, and not of any pleasantness or unpleasantness supplied by the inmates. It was a small house on the south side of the street, squeezed in between two large mansions which seemed to crush it, and by which its fair proportion of doorstep and area was in truth curtailed. The stairs were narrow; the dining-room was dark, and possessed none of those appearances of plenteous hospitality which a dining-room should have. But all this would have been as nothing if the drawing-room had been pretty as it is the bounden duty of all drawing-rooms to be. But Alice Vavasor's drawing-room was not pretty. Her father had had the care of furnishing the house, and he had intrusted the duty to a tradesman who had chosen green paper, a green carpet, green curtains, and green damask chairs. There was a green damask sofa, and two green arm-chairs opposite to each other at the two sides of the fireplace. The room was altogether green, and was not enticing. In shape it was nearly square, the very small back room on the same floor not having been, as is usual, added to it.

I cannot say that the house in Queen Anne Street was a pleasant one. It was a small house squeezed in between two large mansions which seemed to crush it. The stairs were narrow; the dining-room was dark and unwelcoming. This would not have mattered if the drawing-room had been pretty. But Alice Vavasor's drawing-room was not pretty. Her father had had the task of furnishing the house, and he had entrusted the duty to a tradesman who had chosen green paper, a green carpet, green curtains, and green damask chairs. There was a green damask sofa, and two green arm-chairs, one at either side of the fireplace.


This had been fitted up as a "study" for Mr. Vavasor, and was very rarely used for any purpose.


Most of us know when we enter a drawing-room whether it is a pretty room or no; but how few of us know how to make a drawing-room pretty! There has come up in London in these latter days a form of room so monstrously ugly that I will venture to say that no other people on earth but Londoners would put up with it. Londoners, as a rule, take their houses as they can get them, looking only to situation, size, and price. What Grecian, what Roman, what Turk, what Italian would endure, or would ever have endured, to use a room with a monstrous cantle in the form of a parallelogram cut sheerly out of one corner of it? This is the shape of room we have now adopted,--or rather which the builders have adopted for us,--in order to throw the whole first floor into one apartment which may be presumed to have noble dimensions,--with such drawback from it as the necessities of the staircase may require. A sharp unadorned corner projects itself into these would-be noble dimensions, and as ugly a form of chamber is produced as any upon which the eye can look. I would say more on the subject if I dared to do so here, but I am bound now to confine myself to Miss Vavasor's room. The monstrous deformity of which I have spoken was not known when that house in Queen Anne Street was built. There is to be found no such abomination of shape in the buildings of our ancestors,--not even in the days of George the Second. But yet the drawing-room of which I speak was ugly, and Alice knew that it was so.


She knew that it was ugly, and she would greatly have liked to banish the green sofa, to have re-papered the wall, and to have hung up curtains with a dash of pink through them. With the green carpet she would have been contented. But her father was an extravagant man; and from the day on which she had come of age she had determined that it was her special duty to avoid extravagance.
"It's the ugliest room I ever saw in my life," her father once said to her.
"It is not very pretty," Alice replied.
"I'll go halves with you in the expense of redoing it," said Mr. Vavasor.
"Wouldn't that be extravagant, papa? The things have not been here quite four years yet."

 was ugly, and she would greatly have liked to banish the green sofa, to re-paper the wall, and to hang up curtains with a dash of pink in them. But her father was an extravagant man; and she was determined to avoid extravagance.
"It's the ugliest room I ever saw in my life," her father once said to her.
"It is not very pretty," Alice replied.
"I'll go halves with you in the expense of redoing it," said Mr. Vavasor.
"Wouldn't that be extravagant, papa?"


Then Mr. Vavasor had shrugged his shoulders and said nothing more about it. It was little to him whether the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street was ugly or pretty. He was on the committee of his club, and he took care that the furniture there should be in all respects comfortable.
It was now June; and that month Lady Macleod was in the habit of spending among her noble relatives in London when she had succeeded in making both ends so far overlap each other at Cheltenham as to give her the fifty pounds necessary for this purpose. For though she spent her month in London among her noble friends, it must not be supposed that her noble friends gave her bed or board. They sometimes gave her tea, such as it was, and once or twice in the month they gave the old lady a second-rate dinner. On these occasions she hired a little parlour and bedroom behind it in King Street, Saint James's, and lived a hot, uncomfortable life, going about at nights to gatherings of fashionable people of which she in her heart disapproved, seeking for smiles which seldom came to her, and which she excused herself for desiring because they were the smiles of her kith and her kin, telling herself always that she made this vain journey to the modern Babylon for the good of Alice Vavasor, and telling herself as often that she now made it for the last time. On the occasion of her preceding visit she had reminded herself that she was then seventy-five years old, and had sworn to herself that she would come to London no more; but here she was again in London, having justified the journey to herself on the plea that there were circumstances in Alice's engagement which made it desirable that she should for a while be near her niece. Her niece, as she thought, was hardly managing her own affairs discreetly.

Mr. Vavasor had shrugged his shoulders and said nothing more about it.
It was now June; in that month Lady Macleod usually visited her noble relatives in London, when she had succeeded in saving up the fifty pounds necessary for this purpose. For although she spent her month in London among her noble friends, it must not be supposed that they gave her bed or board. They sometimes gave her tea, and once or twice a second-rate dinner.
On these occasions she hired a little parlour and bedroom in King Street, Saint James's, and lived a hot, uncomfortable life, going about at nights to gatherings of fashionable people of which she in her heart disapproved, seeking for smiles which seldom came to her, and telling herself that she made this journey for the good of Alice Vavasor. On her previous visit she had reminded herself that she was seventy-five years old, and had sworn that she would come to London no more; but here she was again, because of the circumstances of Alice's engagement. Her niece, she thought, was not managing her affairs discreetly.


"Well, aunt," said Alice, as the old lady walked into the drawing-room one morning at eleven o'clock. Alice always called Lady Macleod her aunt, though, as has been before explained, there was no such close connexion between them. During Lady Macleod's sojourn in London these morning visits were made almost every day. Alice never denied herself, and even made a point of remaining at home to receive them unless she had previously explained that she would be out; but I am not prepared to say that they were, of their own nature, agreeable to her.
"Would you mind shutting the window, my dear?" said Lady Macleod, seating herself stiffly on one of the small ugly green chairs. She had been educated at a time when easy-chairs were considered vicious, and among people who regarded all easy postures as being so; and she could still boast, at seventy-six, that she never leaned back. "Would you mind shutting the window? I'm so warm that I'm afraid of the draught."
[Illustration: "Would you mind shutting the window?"]

"Well, aunt," said Alice, as the old lady walked into the drawing-room one morning. Alice always called Lady Macleod her aunt, and made a point of staying at home to receive her almost daily visits, although she did not enjoy them.
"Would you mind shutting the window, my dear?" said Lady Macleod, seating herself stiffly on one of the small ugly green chairs. She had been educated at a time when easy-chairs were considered vicious, and could still boast, at seventy-six, that she never leaned back. "I'm so warm that I'm afraid of the draught."


"You don't mean to say that you've walked from King Street," said Alice, doing as she was desired.
"Indeed I do,--every step of the way. Cabs are so ruinous. It's a most unfortunate thing; they always say it's just over the two miles here. I don't believe a word of it, because I'm only a little more than the half-hour walking it; and those men will say anything. But how can I prove it, you know?"
"I really think it's too far for you to walk when it's so warm."

"You don't mean to say that you've walked from King Street?" said Alice.
"Indeed I do. Cabs are so expensive."
"I really think it's too far for you to walk when it's so warm."


"But what can I do, my dear? I must come, when I've specially come up to London to see you. I shall have a cab back again, because it'll be hotter then, and dear Lady Midlothian has promised to send her carriage at three to take me to the concert. I do so wish you'd go, Alice."
"It's out of the question, aunt. The idea of my going in that way at the last moment, without any invitation!"
"It wouldn't be without an invitation, Alice. The marchioness has said to me over and over again how glad she would be to see you, if I would bring you."
"Why doesn't she come and call if she is so anxious to know me?"

"But what can I do, my dear? I shall have a cab home again, because it'll be hotter then, and dear Lady Midlothian has promised to send her carriage at three to take me to the concert. I do so wish you'd go, Alice."
"It's out of the question, aunt. The idea of my going at the last moment, without any invitation!"
"It wouldn't be without an invitation, Alice. The marchioness has said to me over and over again how glad she would be to see you."
"Then why doesn't she come and call one me?"


"My dear, you've no right to expect it; you haven't indeed. She never calls even on me."
"I know I've no right, and I don't expect it, and I don't want it. But neither has she a right to suppose that, under such circumstances, I shall go to her house. You might as well give it up, aunt. Cart ropes wouldn't drag me there."
"I think you are very wrong,--particularly under your present circumstances. A young woman that is going to be married, as you are--"
"As I am,--perhaps."

"My dear, you've no right to expect it. She never calls even on me."
"I know I've no right, and I don't expect it, or want it. But neither has she a right to suppose that I shall go to her house. You might as well give it up, aunt."
"I think you are very wrong, Alice. A young woman that is going to be married, as you are-"
"As I am, perhaps."


"That's nonsense, Alice. Of course you are; and for his sake you are bound to cultivate any advantages that naturally belong to you. As to Lady Midlothian or the marchioness coming to call on you here in your father's house, after all that has passed, you really have no right to look for it."
"And I don't look for it."
"That sort of people are not expected to call. If you'll think of it, how could they do it with all the demands they have on their time?"
"My dear aunt, I wouldn't interfere with their time for worlds."
"Nobody can say of me, I'm sure, that I run after great people or rich people. It does happen that some of the nearest relations I have,--indeed I may say the nearest relations,--are people of high rank; and I do not see that I'm bound to turn away from my own flesh and blood because of that, particularly when they are always so anxious to keep up the connexion."

"That's nonsense, Alice. Of course you are; and for his sake you are bound to cultivate any advantages you may have. Nobody can say that I run after great people or rich people. It just happens that some of my nearest relations are people of high rank; and they are anxious to keep up the connexion."


"I was only speaking of myself, aunt. It is very different with you. You have known them all your life."
"And how are you to know them if you won't begin? Lady Midlothian said to me only yesterday that she was glad to hear that you were going to be married so respectably, and then--"
"Upon my word I'm very much obliged to her ladyship. I wonder whether she considered that she married respectably when she took Lord Midlothian?"

"I was only speaking of myself, aunt. It is very different with you. You have known them all your life."
"And how are you to know them if you won't begin? Lady Midlothian said to me only yesterday that she was glad to hear that you were going to be married so respectably-"
"Upon my word I'm very much obliged to her ladyship. I wonder if she considered that she married respectably when she took Lord Midlothian?"


Now Lady Midlothian had been unfortunate in her marriage, having united herself to a man of bad character, who had used her ill, and from whom she had now been for some years separated. Alice might have spared her allusion to this misfortune when speaking of the countess to the cousin who was so fond of her, but she was angered by the application of that odious word respectable to her own prospects; and perhaps the more angered as she was somewhat inclined to feel that the epithet did suit her own position. Her engagement, she had sometimes told herself, was very respectable, and had as often told herself that it lacked other attractions which it should have possessed. She was not quite pleased with herself in having accepted John Grey,--or rather perhaps was not satisfied with herself in having loved him. In her many thoughts on the subject, she always admitted to herself that she had accepted him simply because she loved him;--that she had given her quick assent to his quick proposal simply because he had won her heart. But she was sometimes almost angry with herself that she had permitted her heart to be thus easily taken from her, and had rebuked herself for her girlish facility. But the marriage would be at any rate respectable. Mr. Grey was a man of high character, of good though moderate means; he was, too, well educated, of good birth, a gentleman, and a man of talent. No one could deny that the marriage would be highly respectable, and her father had been more than satisfied. Why Miss Vavasor herself was not quite satisfied will, I hope, in time make itself appear.

Now Lady Midlothian had been unfortunate in her marriage, having united herself to a man of bad character, who had mistreated her, and from whom she had now been separated for some years. Alice was angered by that odious word respectable; and perhaps the more angered as she felt that her engagement was indeed very respectable, although it lacked other attractions which it should have possessed.
She was not quite pleased with herself in having accepted John Grey - or rather, perhaps, was not satisfied with herself in having loved him. She admitted to herself that she had accepted him simply because he had won her heart. But she was sometimes almost angry that she had permitted her heart to be so easily and quickly taken from her.
But the marriage would be respectable. Mr. Grey was a man of high character, and good though moderate means; he was well educated, of good birth, a gentleman, and a man of talent. Her father had been more than satisfied. Why Miss Vavasor herself was not quite satisfied will, I hope, in time appear.


In the meanwhile it can be understood that Lady Midlothian's praise would gall her.
"Alice, don't be uncharitable," said Lady Macleod severely. "Whatever may have been Lady Midlothian's misfortunes no one can say they have resulted from her own fault."
"Yes they can, aunt, if she married a man whom she knew to be a scapegrace because he was very rich and an earl."
"She was the daughter of a nobleman herself, and only married in her own degree. But I don't want to discuss that. She meant to be good-natured when she mentioned your marriage, and you should take it as it was meant. After all she was only your mother's second cousin--"
"Dear aunt, I make no claim on her cousinship."

In the meanwhile, Lady Midlothian's praise galled her.
"Alice, don't be uncharitable," said Lady Macleod severely. "No one can say that Lady Midlothian's misfortunes were her own fault."
"Yes, they can, aunt, if she married a man whom she knew to be a rascal, just because he was a rich earl."
"She was the daughter of a nobleman herself, and only married at her own level. But I don't want to discuss that. She meant to be good-natured when she mentioned your marriage. After all she was your mother's second cousin-"
"Dear aunt, I make no claim on her cousinship."


"But she admits the claim, and is quite anxious that you should know her. She has been at the trouble to find out everything about Mr. Grey, and told me that nothing could be more satisfactory."
"Upon my word I am very much obliged to her."

"But she does. She has taken the trouble to find out everything about Mr. Grey, and told me that nothing could be more satisfactory."
"Upon my word I am very much obliged to her."


Lady Macleod was a woman of much patience, and possessed also of considerable perseverance. For another half-hour she went on expatiating on the advantages which would accrue to Alice as a married woman from an acquaintance with her noble relatives, and endeavouring to persuade her that no better opportunity than the present would present itself. There would be a place in Lady Midlothian's carriage, as none other of the daughters were going but Lady Jane. Lady Midlothian would take it quite as a compliment, and a concert was not like a ball or any customary party. An unmarried girl might very properly go to a concert under such circumstances as now existed without any special invitation. Lady Macleod ought to have known her adopted niece better. Alice was immoveable. As a matter of course she was immoveable. Lady Macleod had seldom been able to persuade her to anything, and ought to have been well sure that, of all things, she could not have persuaded her to this.

Lady Macleod was a patient and persevering woman. For another half-hour she detailed the advantages which Alice would gain from knowing these noble relatives, and tried to persuade her to take the opportunity. There would be a place in Lady Midlothian's carriage. Lady Midlothian would take it as a compliment, and an unmarried girl might very properly go to a concert without any special invitation.
Lady Macleod ought to have known her adopted niece better. Alice was immoveable. Lady Macleod had seldom been able to persuade her to anything, and ought to have predicted this.


Then, at last, they came to another subject, as to which Lady Macleod declared that she had specially come on this special morning, forgetting, probably, that she had already made the same assertion with reference to the concert. But in truth the last assertion was the correct one, and on that other subject she had been hurried on to say more than she meant by the eagerness of the moment. All the morning she had been full of the matter on which she was now about to speak. She had discussed it quite at length with Lady Midlothian;--though she was by no means prepared to tell Alice Vavasor that any such discussion had taken place. From the concert, and the effect which Lady Midlothian's countenance might have upon Mr. Grey's future welfare, she got herself by degrees round to a projected Swiss tour which Alice was about to make. Of this Swiss tour she had heard before, but had not heard who were to be Miss Vavasor's companions until Lady Midlothian had told her. How it had come to pass that Lady Midlothian had interested herself so much in the concerns of a person whom she did not know, and on whom she in her greatness could not be expected to call, I cannot say; but from some quarter she had learned who were the proposed companions of Alice Vavasor's tour, and she had told Lady Macleod that she did not at all approve of the arrangement.
"And when do you go, Alice?" said Lady Macleod.

At last they came to another subject, which Lady Macleod had had in mind all along. She had discussed it at length with Lady Midlothian; though she was not going to tell Alice that. It was a proposed Swiss tour which Alice was about to make. She had heard about this Swiss tour before, but had not heard who Miss Vavasor's companions were to be until Lady Midlothian had told her. How Lady Midlothian knew this, I cannot say; but she did not approve of the arrangement.
"When do you go, Alice?" said Lady Macleod.


"Early in July, I believe. It will be very hot, but Kate must be back by the middle of August." Kate Vavasor was Alice's first cousin.
"Oh! Kate is to go with you?"
"Of course she is. I could not go alone, or with no one but George. Indeed it was Kate who made up the party."

"Early in July, I believe. It will be very hot, but Kate must be back by the middle of August." Kate Vavasor was Alice's first cousin.
"Oh! Kate is to go with you?"
"Of course she is. I could not go alone, or with no one but George."


"Of course you could not go alone with George," said Lady Macleod, very grimly. Now George Vavasor was Kate's brother, and was therefore also first cousin to Alice. He was heir to the old squire down in Westmoreland, with whom Kate lived, their father being dead. Nothing, it would seem, could be more rational than that Alice should go to Switzerland with her cousins; but Lady Macleod was clearly not of this opinion; she looked very grim as she made this allusion to cousin George, and seemed to be preparing herself for a fight.
"That is exactly what I say," answered Alice. "But, indeed, he is simply going as an escort to me and Kate, as we don't like the rle of unprotected females. It is very good-natured of him, seeing how much his time is taken up."
"I thought he never did anything."
"That's because you don't know him, aunt."

"Of course you could not go alone with George," said Lady Macleod, very grimly.
Now George Vavasor was Kate's brother, and therefore cousin to Alice. He was heir to the old squire down in Westmorland, the grandfather with whom Kate lived, their father being dead. Nothing could be more rational than that Alice should go to Switzerland with her cousins; but Lady Macleod was clearly not of this opinion. She looked very grim, and seemed to be preparing for a fight.
"That is exactly what I say," answered Alice. "But he is simply going as an escort to me and Kate, as we don't like the rle of unprotected females. It is very good-natured of him, seeing how much his time is taken up."
"I thought he never did anything."
"That's because you don't know him, aunt."


"No; certainly I don't know him." She did not add that she had no wish to know Mr. George Vavasor, but she looked it. "And has your father been told that he is going?"
"Of course he has."
"And does--" Lady Macleod hesitated a little before she went on, and then finished her question with a little spasmodic assumption of courage. "And does Mr. Grey know that he is going?"
Alice remained silent for a full minute before she answered this question, during which Lady Macleod sat watching her grimly, with her eyes very intent upon her niece's face. If she supposed such silence to have been in any degree produced by shame in answering the question, she was much mistaken. But it may be doubted whether she understood the character of the girl whom she thought she knew so well, and it is probable that she did make such mistake.

"No; certainly I don't know him." She did not add that she had no wish to know Mr. George Vavasor, but she looked it. "And has your father been told that he is going?"
"Of course he has."
"And does-" Lady Macleod hesitated before she went on. "And does Mr. Grey know that he is going?"
Alice remained silent for a full minute before she answered, while Lady Macleod watched her grimly and intently. If she supposed Alice to be ashamed, she was much mistaken. She did not understand the character of the girl whom she thought she knew so well.