When they went into the dining-room, the choice spirits deemed worthy to be at the board were each introduced by name to the Lady Eliz, who explained that because of her infirmities she had been unable to have the honour of receiving them in the drawing-room.  She made appropriate remarks, inquiring after the relatives of each, offering congratulations or condolences as the case demanded.  It was cleverly done.  Courthope stood aside, immensely entertained, and when at last he too began to offer spirited remarks to the imaginary guests, he went up in favour so immensely that Eliz cried, ’Let Mr. Courthope take the end of the table.  Let Mr. Courthope be father.  It’s much nicer to have a master of the house.’  She began at once introducing him to the invisible guests as her father, and Madge, if she did not like the fancy, did not cross her will.  There was in Madge’s manner a large good-humoured tolerance.

The table was long, and amply spread with fine glass and silver; nothing was antique, everything was in the old-fashioned tasteless style of a former generation, but the value of solid silver was not small.  The homely serving-woman in her peasant-like dress stood aside, submissive, as it seemed, but ignorant of how to behave at so large a dinner.  Courthope, who in a visit to the stables had discovered that this Frenchwoman with her husband and one young daughter were at present the whole retinue of servants, wondered the more that such precious articles as the young girls and the plate should be safe in so lonely a place.

Madge was seated at the head of the table, Courthope at the foot; Eliz in her high chair had been wheeled to the centre of one side.  Madge, playing the hostess with gentle dignity, was enjoying herself to the full, a rosy, cooing sort of joy in the play, in the feast that she had succeeded in preparing, in her amusement at the literary sallies of Eliz, and, above all perhaps, in the company of the new and unexpected playmate to whom, because of his youth, she attributed the same perfect sympathy with their sentiments which seemed to exist between themselves.  Courthope felt this—­he felt that he was idealised through no virtue of his own; but it was a delightful sensation, and brought out the best that was in him of wit and pure joyfulness.  To Eliz the creatures of her imagination were too real for perfect pleasure; her face was tense, her eyes shot sparkles of light, her voice was high, for her the entertainment of the invisible guests involved real responsibility and effort.

‘Asides are allowed, of course?’ said Eliz, as if pronouncing a debatable rule at cards.

‘Of course,’ said Madge, ‘or we could not play.’

‘It’s the greatest fun,’ cried Eliz, ’to hear Sir Charles telling Mr. John Knightley about the good example that a virtuous man ought to set.  With “hands and eyes uplifted” he is explaining the duty he owes to his Maker.  It’s rare to see John Knightley’s face.  I seated them on purpose with only Miss Matty between them, because I knew she wouldn’t interrupt.’