a baronet.  Lady Chettam thought that such conduct was very reprehensible, and remembered that Mrs. Truberry’s mother was a Miss Walsingham of Melspring.  Celia confessed it was nicer to be “Lady” than “Mrs.,” and that Dodo never minded about precedence if she could have her own way.  Mrs. Cadwallader held that it was a poor satisfaction to take precedence when everybody about you knew that you had not a drop of good blood in your veins; and Celia again, stopping to look at Arthur, said, “It would be very nice, though, if he were a Viscount—­ and his lordship’s little tooth coming through!  He might have been, if James had been an Earl.”

“My dear Celia,” said the Dowager, “James’s title is worth far more than any new earldom.  I never wished his father to be anything else than Sir James.”

“Oh, I only meant about Arthur’s little tooth,” said Celia, comfortably.  “But see, here is my uncle coming.”

She tripped off to meet her uncle, while Sir James and Mr. Cadwallader came forward to make one group with the ladies.  Celia had slipped her arm through her uncle’s, and he patted her hand with a rather melancholy “Well, my dear!” As they approached, it was evident that Mr. Brooke was looking dejected, but this was fully accounted for by the state of politics; and as he was shaking hands all round without more greeting than a “Well, you’re all here, you know,” the Rector said, laughingly—­

“Don’t take the throwing out of the Bill so much to heart, Brooke; you’ve got all the riff-raff of the country on your side.”

“The Bill, eh? ah!” said Mr. Brooke, with a mild distractedness of manner.  “Thrown out, you know, eh?  The Lords are going too far, though.  They’ll have to pull up.  Sad news, you know.  I mean, here at home—­sad news.  But you must not blame me, Chettam.”

“What is the matter?” said Sir James.  “Not another gamekeeper shot, I hope?  It’s what I should expect, when a fellow like Trapping Bass is let off so easily.”

“Gamekeeper?  No.  Let us go in; I can tell you all in the house, you know,” said Mr. Brooke, nodding at the Cadwalladers, to show that he included them in his confidence.  “As to poachers like Trapping Bass, you know, Chettam,” he continued, as they were entering, “when you are a magistrate, you’ll not find it so easy to commit.  Severity is all very well, but it’s a great deal easier when you’ve got somebody to do it for you.  You have a soft place in your heart yourself, you know—­you’re not a Draco, a Jeffreys, that sort of thing.”

Mr. Brooke was evidently in a state of nervous perturbation.  When he had something painful to tell, it was usually his way to introduce it among a number of disjointed particulars, as if it were a medicine that would get a milder flavor by mixing.  He continued his chat with Sir James about the poachers until they were all seated, and Mrs. Cadwallader, impatient of this drivelling, said—­