‘Fothergill,’ said the duke—­and it was the only word he had yet spoken out loud—­’I believe we are ready for dinner.’  Now Mr Fothergill was the duke’s land-agent, and he it was who had greeted Frank and his friends at their entrance.

Immediately the gong was again sounded, and another door leading out of the drawing-room into the dining-room was opened.  The duke led the way, and then the guests followed.  ‘Stick close to me, Mr Gresham,’ said Athill, ’we’ll get about the middle of the table, where we shall be cosy—­and on the other side of the room, out of this dreadful draught—­I know the place well, Mr Gresham; stick to me.’

Mr Athill, who was a pleasant, chatty companion, had hardly seated himself, and was talking to Frank as quickly as he could, when Mr Fothergill, who sat at the bottom of the table, asked him to say grace.  It seemed to be quite out of the question that the duke should take any trouble over his guests whatever.  Mr Athill consequently dropped the word he was speaking, and uttered a prayer—­if it was a prayer—­that they might all have grateful hearts for which God was about to give them.

If it was a prayer!  As far as my own experience goes, such utterances are seldom prayers, seldom can be prayers.  And if not prayers, what then?  To me it is unintelligible that the full tide of glibbest chatter can be stopped at a moment in the midst of profuse good living, and the Given thanked becomingly in words of heartfelt praise.  Setting aside for the moment what one daily hears and sees, may not one declare that a change so sudden is not within the compass of the human mind?  But then, to such reasoning one cannot but add what one does hear and see; one cannot but judge of the ceremony by the manner in which one sees it performed—­uttered, that is—­and listened to.  Clergymen there are—­one meets them now and then—­who endeavour to give to the dinner-table grace some of the solemnity of a church ritual, and what is the effect?  Much the same as though one were to be interrupted for a minute in the midst of one of our church liturgies to hear a drinking-song.

And it will be argued, that a man need be less thankful because, at the moment of receiving, he utters not thanksgiving? or will it be thought that a man is made thankful because what is called a grace is uttered after dinner?  It can hardly be imagined that any one will so argue, or so think.

Dinner-graces are, probably, the last remaining relic of certain daily services which the Church in olden days enjoined:  nones, complines, and vespers were others.  Of the nones and complines we have happily got quit; and it might be well if we could get rid of the dinner-grace also.  Let any man ask himself whether, on his own part, they are acts of prayer and thanksgiving—­and if not that, what then?  It is, I know, alleged that graces are said before dinner, because our Saviour uttered a blessing before his last supper.  I cannot say that the idea of such analogy is pleasing to me.