Eugene Lane stood upon his hearthrug, conversing with the Bishop of Bellminster and covertly regarding his betrothed out of the corner of an apprehensive eye.  They had not met alone since the morning, and he was naturally anxious to find out whether that unlucky “Claudia” had been overheard.  Claudia herself was listening to the conversation of Mr. Morewood, the well-known artist; and Stafford, who had only arrived just before dinner, was still busy in answering Mrs. Lane’s questions about his health.  Sir George Merton had failed at the last moment, “like a Radical,” said Claudia.

“I am extremely interested in meeting your friend Father Stafford,” said the Bishop.

“Well, he’s a first-rate fellow,” replied Eugene.  “I’m sure you’ll like him.”

“You young fellows call him the Pope, don’t you?” asked his lordship, who was a genial man.

“Yes.  You don’t mind, do you?  It’s not as if we called him the Archbishop of Canterbury, you know.”

“I shouldn’t consider even that very personal,” said the Bishop, smiling.

Dinner was announced.  Eugene gave the Bishop’s wife his arm, whispering to Claudia as he passed, “Age before impudence”; and that young lady found that she had fallen to the lot of Stafford, whereat she was well pleased.  Kate was paired with Haddington, and Mr. Morewood with Aunt Jane.  The Bishop, of course, escorted the hostess.

“And who,” said he, almost as soon as he was comfortably settled to his soup, “is the young lady sitting by our friend the Father—­the one, I mean, with dark hair, not Miss Bernard?  I know her.”

“That’s Lady Claudia Territon,” said Mrs. Lane.  “Very pretty, isn’t she? and really a very good girl.”

“Do you say ‘really’ because, unless you did, I shouldn’t believe it?” he asked, with a smile.

Mrs. Lane had been moved by this idea, but not consciously and, a little distressed at suspecting herself of an unkindness, entertained the Bishop with an entirely fanciful catalogue of Claudia’s virtues, which, being overheard by Bob Territon, who had no lady, and was at liberty to listen, occasioned him immense entertainment.

Claudia, meanwhile, was drifting into a state of some annoyance.  Stafford was very courteous and attentive, but he drank nothing, and apparently proposed to dine off dry bread.  When she began to question him about his former parish, instead of showing the gratitude that might be expected, he smiled a smile that she found pleasure in describing as inscrutable, and said: 

“Please don’t talk down to me, Lady Claudia.”

“I have been taught,” responded Claudia, rather stiffly, “to talk about subjects in which my company is presumably interested.”

Stafford looked at her with some surprise.  It must be admitted that he had become used to more submission than Claudia seemed inclined to give him.

“I beg your pardon.  You are quite right.  Let us talk about it.”