Still, at the dinner in question, all the elements were not quite well amalgamated.  Although the dishes were so discreetly seasoned, and the entremets so exquisitely prepared, that the most fastidious critic of the gastronomic art would not have found a grain too much of any one ingredient, there was a less judicious mixture amongst the guests.  Nothing could be more perfect than the bearing of the host and hostess.  Mr Gywnne was a gentleman, even in his peculiarities—­fastidiously a gentleman—­and comported himself as such to every one.  But he was too nervous, and had too low a voice to put his guests at ease:  one half did not hear him at all, and the rest were slightly afraid of him on account of this extreme fastidiousness, his nervous complaints and his being very easily tired, or bored.  Miss Gwynne was more successful at her end of the table, but she rather annoyed some of her guests by being too much bent on bringing out her friend Netta, and playing her off against Miss Nugent.

She was, however, very polite to all, and, for so young a woman, made a very agreeable and fascinating hostess.  So, apparently, thought all the gentlemen, as they principally addressed their conversation to her, and had manoeuvred, particularly the young ones, to sit as near her as possible.  The Rev Jonathan Prothero had the place of honour at her right, and did not take up much of her time.  He appeared to be deep in the speculation concerning the ancient castle of which we have already heard, and was learnedly descanting upon it to Mrs Rice Rice, a lady on his other side.  The said Mrs Rice Rice, having un oeil aux champs, et l’autre a la ville, was ostensibly listening to him, whilst she was really attending to her son, who was making visible efforts on the heart of the heiress, Miss Gwynne.

The Rice Rices were people of family and fortune, living in the neighbouring town.  Mr Rice Rice was in the law, and was at that moment engaged in discussing the affairs of the deceased Mr. Griffith Jenkins and his quondam articled pupil, Howel, with Rowland Prothero across Miss Nugent.  He was a portly well-to-do-looking man, with a bald head and good-humoured countenance.  His wife was even more portly than himself, and sat, in black velvet and marabout feathers, as stately as a princess at a drawing-room.  The task of keeping up the family reputation of the ancient house of Rice Rice devolved in a great measure on this lady, assisted by her daughter; and, it must be said, that if any one could have doubted the antiquity of this honourable race after an hour’s conversation with this enthusiastic pair he must have been a sceptic indeed!  Family pride is a common weakness, but one could almost call it the stronghold of Mrs. Rice Rice, just as the various archaeological and historical glories of Wales and the Welsh was the fortress of Mr. Jonathan Prothero.

It was into these towers of strength that these worthies retreated on all occasions.  One saw the bulwark in Mrs. Rice Rice’s ample, immoveable figure, and in the glance of the eyes that looked over the somewhat mountainous cheek; one saw it in a certain extension of the chin, turn of the mouth, and slightly retrousse nose.  One saw it, above all, in her manner to the Protheros.