If, as is probable, Mr. Barton felt at a loss what to say in reply to the insinuated compliment, it was a relief to him that dinner was announced just then, and that he had to offer his arm to the Countess.

As Mr. Bridmain was leading Mrs. Barton to the dining-room, he observed, ‘The weather is very severe.’

‘Very, indeed,’ said Milly.

Mr. Bridmain studied conversation as an art.  To ladies he spoke of the weather, and was accustomed to consider it under three points of view:  as a question of climate in general, comparing England with other countries in this respect; as a personal question, inquiring how it affected his lady interlocutor in particular; and as a question of probabilities, discussing whether there would be a change or a continuance of the present atmospheric conditions.  To gentlemen he talked politics, and he read two daily papers expressly to qualify himself for this function.  Mr. Barton thought him a man of considerable political information, but not of lively parts.

‘And so you are always to hold your Clerical Meetings at Mr. Ely’s?’ said the Countess, between her spoonfuls of soup. (The soup was a little over-spiced.  Mrs. Short of Camp Villa, who was in the habit of letting her best apartments, gave only moderate wages to her cook.)

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Barton; ’Milby is a central place, and there are many conveniences in having only one point of meeting.’

‘Well,’ continued the Countess, ’every one seems to agree in giving the precedence to Mr. Ely.  For my part, I cannot admire him.  His preaching is too cold for me.  It has no fervour—­no heart.  I often say to my brother, it is a great comfort to me that Shepperton Church is not too far off for us to go to; don’t I, Edmund?’

‘Yes,’ answered Mr. Bridmain; ’they show us into such a bad pew at Milby—­just where there is a draught from that door.  I caught a stiff neck the first time I went there.’

’O, it is the cold in the pulpit that affects me, not the cold in the pew.  I was writing to my friend Lady Porter this morning, and telling her all about my feelings.  She and I think alike on such matters.  She is most anxious that when Sir William has an opportunity of giving away the living at their place, Dippley, they should have a thoroughly zealous clever man there.  I have been describing a certain friend of mine to her, who, I think, would be just to her mind.  And there is such a pretty rectory, Milly; shouldn’t I like to see you the mistress of it?’

Milly smiled and blushed slightly.  The Rev. Amos blushed very red, and gave a little embarrassed laugh—­he could rarely keep his muscles within the limits of a smile.  At this moment John, the man-servant, approached Mrs. Barton with a gravy-tureen, and also with a slight odour of the stable, which usually adhered to him through his in-door functions.  John was rather nervous; and the Countess happening to speak to him at this inopportune moment, the tureen slipped and emptied itself on Mrs. Barton’s newly-turned black silk.