It would perhaps be irregular to say that the Reverend Matthew and Mrs. Cotton were the incumbents of the parish church of Cluhir (and had been profanely described as “the incumbrance of Cluhir"); even to speak of them as, respectively, its curate and its rector, might, though more accurate, be, perhaps, considered flippant.  It would also be open to the reproach of lack of originality.  Yet, unoriginal though the dominant clergywoman of fiction may be, it cannot be denied that St. Paul’s injunctions in connection with the subjection of wives did not commend themselves to Mrs. Cotton.  It may be, indeed, that her views on matrimony, being more instructed, were sounder than those of St. Paul, and she could at least argue that had he been acquainted with Mr. Cotton he might have modified them.  In any case, whatever St. Paul might think about it, Mrs. Cotton was quite sure that she was better fitted than was her husband to deal with the matter that had brought them to Mount Music.

She did not, however, as becomes a sound tactician, approach the point with undue directness.  Lady Isabel had sent her daughters to school in Paris; Lady Isabel had, on a bygone occasion, been goaded by Mrs. Cotton into a declaration that her servants’ religion was a matter with which she only concerned herself if they neglected their religious duties.  Mrs. Cotton, remembering these things and being ever filled to brimming with what Christian has called The Spirit of the Nation, opened with a general attack upon the Church of Rome, and narrowed to a tale of “a friend of mine and Mr. Cotton’s.  A clergyman.  A man of private means.”  After this stimulating prelude, the tale ceased for a moment, while Mrs. Cotton blinked her small black eyes at her hostess, several times, as was her practice.  “Oh, a very wealthy man!” she continued, imposingly, “and he bought a lovely house, with a garden; a lovely garden!” The thought of a garden was a fortunate one, and enlisted Lady Isabel’s wandering attention.  “But at the end of the garden what was there but a Nunnery.  And the clergyman found that his daughters were always slipping out into the garden, and what was it but the nuns that were getting hold of the girls!  Very refined women they were, and well able to deceive young girls!” The tale was flowing swiftly now, but Mrs. Cotton paused dramatically, and continued on a lower key.  “The clergyman had had bookshelves made to fit the study, and a splendid antique sideboard to fitanitch—­” Mrs. Cotton spoke fast, and the last three words ran bewilderingly into one.  “But he sold the house AT ONCE!  Yes, indeed, Lady Isabel!  Weren’t his daughters’ souls more to him than bookshelves?”