Unless you own the genuine thing in rank or reputation, how frightfully difficult it is to send an astute vulgar old millionaire the one present which will open his doors to you.

If you do own the genuine thing, an electro-plated toast-rack will be all-sufficient.  If you don’t, well it’s simply no good worrying around the bottom rung of the ladder which he has climbed, and from the top of which he sits making faces of derision at you.

The principal performers had just disappeared into the vestry as the old clock chimed twelve, and Jan Cuxson, swinging back the churchyard gate, strode up the narrow tomb-lined path to the church door.

Every woman turned to look at him as he passed.

“Look at ’e now, Mrs. Ovey!  He be staying with me.  Did ’ee iver zee sich a butivul face.  Jist like a picture.  Sit ’ee still, young Gracie, an’ doan ’ee walk over thikee graves, now!  I tell ’ee ’e’d make a proper bridegroom, ’e wud!”

“Iss, I reckon!  ’Er ’av done mighty fine fer ’erself, ’er ’ave; Mrs. Tucker tol’ me all ’bout ’un, but ’er be terr’ble young, b’ain’t ’er, for the likes of thikee ol’ man?”

The country women patted and pulled at their best clothes, and turned their sweet, slightly bronzed faces, with skins like satin, up to the blazing sun.

“Iss, vrai! that ’er be Mrs. Pugsley!  But did ’ee iver zee the likes on they ther zatins an’ laces an’ juels they vine wimen be wearin’?”

“Iss! an’ luk at th’ ol’ paint an’ stuff ther be ol over ther vaces?  Dear, dear now, ther lips be terr’ble raid, b’ain’t ‘un?  Luks lik’ they’d bin stealin’ cherries!  An’ ther eyes be terr’ble black!  Luks lik’ the’d bin fightin’ with ther ’usbands.”

Silence fell, during which sweet music stole through the church windows to fall like a benison upon the charming simple folk who, by their courtesy and gentleness, make Devon such a blissful county to dwell in.

“Can’t think, now,” suddenly remarked Mrs. Ovey, “w’y thikee young lady ’av chose Mortehoe Church fer ’er weddin’!”

“I’ve year’d tell that ’er vather be related to zum lord ’oo ’elped kill some ol’ parson, yers an’ yers gone by!  Gracie! now wat be th’ ol’ man’s name now that taicher tol ’ee ’bout?”

“Tracey!”

“Iss, iss!  I’ve year’d tell ’e be buried zumwher yer ‘bouts, an’ th’ ol’ bridegroom be proper zet to be married down yer!”

“After th’ weddin’,” continued Mrs. Ovey, supplying information, “all th’ vine volks be goin’ on to Lay Hotel vur summat t’ ate.  Arter that they tu be goin’ vor ’oneymun over ta ‘ardland in li’le ol’ ’ouze.  Poor li’le lady, an’ th’ ouze they be goin’ to be so small ther b’ain’t no room vur zervants nor nothin’!”

“My now, Mrs. Ovey, but that young feller be proper ’ansom, b’ain’t ’e now?  I reckon it be a pity that ’er ’adn’t zeen ’im befor ’er vixed up with old ‘un.  I remember when Bill was courtin’ me, ’ow——­”