“Benson gone?” Richard exclaimed.  “What a tremendous time it seems since I left Raynham!”

“So it is, my dear boy.  The honeymoon is Mahomet’s minute; or say, the Persian King’s water-pail that you read of in the story:  You dip your head in it, and when you draw it out, you discover that you have lived a life.  To resume your uncle Algernon still roams in pursuit of the lost one—­I should say, hops.  Your uncle Hippias has a new and most perplexing symptom; a determination of bride-cake to the nose.  Ever since your generous present to him, though he declares he never consumed a morsel of it, he has been under the distressing illusion that his nose is enormous, and I assure you he exhibits quite a maidenly timidity in following it—­through a doorway, for instance.  He complains of its terrible weight.  I have conceived that Benson invisible might be sitting on it.  His hand, and the doctor’s, are in hourly consultation with it, but I fear it will not grow smaller.  The Pilgrim has begotten upon it a new Aphorism:  that Size is a matter of opinion.”

“Poor uncle Hippy!” said Richard, “I wonder he doesn’t believe in magic.  There’s nothing supernatural to rival the wonderful sensations he does believe in.  Good God! fancy coming to that!”

“I’m sure I’m very sorry,” Lucy protested, “but I can’t help laughing.”

Charming to the wise youth her pretty laughter sounded.

“The Pilgrim has your notion, Richard.  Whom does he not forestall?  ‘Confirmed dyspepsia is the apparatus of illusions,’ and he accuses the Ages that put faith in sorcery, of universal indigestion, which may have been the case, owing to their infamous cookery.  He says again, if you remember, that our own Age is travelling back to darkness and ignorance through dyspepsia.  He lays the seat of wisdom in the centre of our system, Mrs. Richard:  for which reason you will understand how sensible I am of the vast obligation I am under to you at the present moment, for your especial care of mine.”

Richard looked on at Lucy’s little triumph, attributing Adrian’s subjugation to her beauty and sweetness.  She had latterly received a great many compliments on that score, which she did not care to hear, and Adrian’s homage to a practical quality was far pleasanter to the young wife, who shrewdly guessed that her beauty would not help her much in the struggle she had now to maintain.  Adrian continuing to lecture on the excelling virtues of wise cookery, a thought struck her:  Where, where had she tossed Mrs. Berry’s book?

“So that’s all about the home-people?” said Richard.

“All!” replied Adrian.  “Or stay:  you know Clare’s going to be married?  Not?  Your Aunt Helen”—­

“Oh, bother my Aunt Helen!  What do you think she had the impertinence to write—­but never mind!  Is it to Ralph?”

“Your Aunt Helen, I was going to say, my dear boy, is an extraordinary woman.  It was from her originally that the Pilgrim first learnt to call the female the practical animal.  He studies us all, you know.  The Pilgrim’s Scrip is the abstract portraiture of his surrounding relatives.  Well, your Aunt Helen”—­