The Mayoress laid her fan on her bosom, and inclined graciously.  She was a portly and high-coloured woman, with hanging nether lip.  Glazzard conversed with her and her husband in a tone of amiable liveliness.

“Remarkable,” he said, smiling to the Mayoress, “how patiently women in general support this ancient yoke of tyranny!”

Mrs. Mumbray looked at him with condescending eyes, in doubt as to his real meaning.  Her husband, ponderously literal, answered in his head-voice: 

“I fail to recognize the grievance.—­How do you do, Mr. Lovett?—­ I am conscious of no tyranny.”

“But that is just what Mr. Glazzard meant, papa, put in Serena, with scarcely disguised contempt.

“Ha! oh!  To be sure—­to be sure!  Quite so, Mr. Glazzard.—­A very amoosing lecture, all the same.  Not of course to be taken seriously.  —­Good evening, Mr. Glazzard—­good evening!”

The Mayoress again inclined.  Serena gave her acquaintance an enigmatic look, murmured a leave-taking, and, with an affectionate nod to Ivy, passed on.  Glazzard drew near to his niece.

“Your friend is not a disciple of Mrs. Wade?”

“Oh dear no, uncle!”

“Not just a little bit?” he smiled, encouragingly.

“Perhaps she would agree with what Mr. Quarrier said about girls having a right to better instruction.”

“I see.  Don’t wait with me if there’s any one you would like to speak to.”

Ivy shook her head.  She had a troubled expression, as if the experience of the evening had agitated her.

Close at hand, a circle of men had formed about Mr. Chown, who was haranguing on the Woman question.  What he wanted was to emancipate the female mind from the yoke of superstition and of priestcraft.  Time enough to talk about giving women votes when they were no longer the slaves of an obstructive religion.  There were good things in the lecture, but, on the whole, it was flabby—­flabby.  A man who would discourse on this topic must be courageous; he must dare to shock and give offence.  Now, if he had been lecturing——­

Glazzard beckoned to his niece, and led her out of ear-shot of these utterances.  In a minute or two they were joined by the chairman, who had already equipped himself for departure.

“Bah!  I have a splitting headache,” said William.  “Let us get home.”

Quarrier was still on the platform, but at this moment he caught Glazzard’s eye, and came hastening down.  His friend stepped forward to meet him.

“Well, how did it go?” Denzil asked, gaily.

“You have great aptitude for that kind of thing.”

“So it strikes me.—­Will you engage yourself to dine with me the day after to-morrow?”

“Willingly.”

“I have an idea.  You remember the Coach and Horses—­over at Rickstead?”

It was a fine old country inn, associated in their memories of boyhood with hare-and-hounds and other sportive excursions.  Glazzard nodded.