“They ought not to have died,” she thought.  “However, they did—­and we selfish old creatures go on.”  The tears came to her eyes; she felt a genuine regret for them, a kind of respect for their youth and beauty, and a kind of shame for herself; but the tears did not fall; and she opened one of those innumerable novels which she used to pronounce good or bad, or pretty middling, or really wonderful.  “I can’t think how people come to imagine such things,” she would say, taking off her spectacles and looking up with the old faded eyes, that were becoming ringed with white.

Just behind the stuffed leopard Mr. Elliot was playing chess with Mr. Pepper.  He was being defeated, naturally, for Mr. Pepper scarcely took his eyes off the board, and Mr. Elliot kept leaning back in his chair and throwing out remarks to a gentleman who had only arrived the night before, a tall handsome man, with a head resembling the head of an intellectual ram.  After a few remarks of a general nature had passed, they were discovering that they knew some of the same people, as indeed had been obvious from their appearance directly they saw each other.

“Ah yes, old Truefit,” said Mr. Elliot.  “He has a son at Oxford.  I’ve often stayed with them.  It’s a lovely old Jacobean house.  Some exquisite Greuzes—­one or two Dutch pictures which the old boy kept in the cellars.  Then there were stacks upon stacks of prints.  Oh, the dirt in that house!  He was a miser, you know.  The boy married a daughter of Lord Pinwells.  I know them too.  The collecting mania tends to run in families.  This chap collects buckles—­men’s shoe-buckles they must be, in use between the years 1580 and 1660; the dates mayn’t be right, but fact’s as I say.  Your true collector always has some unaccountable fad of that kind.  On other points he’s as level-headed as a breeder of shorthorns, which is what he happens to be.  Then the Pinwells, as you probably know, have their share of eccentricity too.  Lady Maud, for instance—­” he was interrupted here by the necessity of considering his move,—­“Lady Maud has a horror of cats and clergymen, and people with big front teeth.  I’ve heard her shout across a table, ’Keep your mouth shut, Miss Smith; they’re as yellow as carrots!’ across a table, mind you.  To me she’s always been civility itself.  She dabbles in literature, likes to collect a few of us in her drawing-room, but mention a clergyman, a bishop even, nay, the Archbishop himself, and she gobbles like a turkey-cock.  I’ve been told it’s a family feud—­something to do with an ancestor in the reign of Charles the First.  Yes,” he continued, suffering check after check, “I always like to know something of the grandmothers of our fashionable young men.  In my opinion they preserve all that we admire in the eighteenth century, with the advantage, in the majority of cases, that they are personally clean.  Not that one would insult old Lady Barborough by calling her clean.  How often d’you think, Hilda,” he called out to his wife, “her ladyship takes a bath?”