And Mrs. Gibson herself apologized as it were to Molly to-day, in the same words she had often used to Mr. Gibson,—­’It’s no extravagance, for we need not eat it—­I never do.  But it looks well, and makes Maria understand what is required in the daily life of every family of position.’

All through the evening Molly’s thoughts wandered far and wide, though she managed to keep up a show of attention to what Mrs. Gibson was saying.  She was thinking of Osborne, and his abrupt, half-finished confidence, his ill-looks; she was wondering when Roger would come home, and longing for his return, as much (she said to herself) for Osborne’s sake as for her own.  And then she checked herself.  What had she to do with Roger?  Why should she long for his return?  It was Cynthia who was doing this; only somehow he was such a true friend to Molly, that she could not help thinking of him as a staff and a stay in the troublous times which appeared to lie not far ahead this evening.  Then Mr. Preston and her little adventure with him came uppermost.  How angry he looked!  How could Cynthia have liked him even enough to get into this abominable scrape, which was, however, all over now!  And so she ran on in her fancies and imaginations, little dreaming that that very night much talk was going on not half-a-mile from where she sate sewing, that would prove that the ‘scrape’ (as she called it, in her girlish phraseology) was not all over.

Scandal sleeps in the summer, comparatively speaking.  Its nature is the reverse of that of the dormouse.  Warm ambient air, loiterings abroad, gardenings, flowers to talk about, and preserves to make, soothed the wicked imp to slumber in the parish of Hollingford in summer-time.  But when evenings grew short, and people gathered round the fires, and put their feet in a circle—­not on the fenders, that was not allowed—­then was the time for confidential conversation!  Or in the pauses allowed for the tea-trays to circulate among the card-tables—­when those who were peaceably inclined tried to stop the warm discussions about ’the odd trick,’ and the rather wearisome feminine way of ’shouldering the crutch, and showing how fields were won’—­small crumbs and scraps of daily news came up to the surface, such as ’Martindale has raised the price of his best joints a halfpenny in the pound;’ or ’it’s a shame of Sir Harry to order in another book on farriery into the Book Society; Phoebe and I tried to read it, but really there is no general interest in it;’ or, ’I wonder what Mr. Ashton will do, now Nancy is going to be married!  Why, she has been with him these seventeen years!  It’s a very foolish thing for a woman of her age to be thinking of matrimony; and so I told her, when I met her in the market-place this morning!’

So said Miss Browning on the night in question; her hand of cards lying by her on the green baize-covered table, while she munched the rich pound-cake of a certain Mrs. Dawes, lately come to inhabit Hollingford.