You discerned the imitation of the type, you acknowledged the inferior compositor.  Mr. Cramborne Wathin was by birth of a grade beneath his wife; he sprang (behind a curtain of horror) from tradesmen.  The Bench was in designation for him to wash out the stain, but his children suffered in large hands and feet, short legs, excess of bone, prominences misplaced.  Their mother inspired them carefully with the religion she opposed to the pretensions of a nobler blood, while instilling into them that the blood they drew from her was territorial, far above the vulgar.  Her appearance and her principles fitted her to stand for the Puritan rich of the period, emerging by the aid of an extending wealth into luxurious worldliness, and retaining the maxims of their forefathers for the discipline of the poor and erring.

Lady Dunstane called on her, ostensibly to let her know she had taken a house in town for the season, and in the course of the chat Mrs. Cramborne Wathin was invited to dinner.  ’You will meet my dear friend, Mrs. Warwick,’ she said, and the reply was:  ‘Oh, I have heard of her.’

The formal consultation with Mr. Cramborne Wathin ended in an agreement to accept Lady Dunstane’s kind invitation.

Considering her husband’s plenitude of old legal anecdotes, and her own diligent perusal of the funny publications of the day, that she might be on the level of the wits and celebrities she entertained, Mrs. Cramborne Wathin had a right to expect the leading share in the conversation to which she was accustomed.  Every honour was paid to them; they met aristocracy in the persons of Lord Larrian, of Lady Rockden, Colonel Purlby, the Pettigrews, but neither of them held the table for a moment; the topics flew, and were no sooner up than down; they were unable to get a shot.  They had to eat in silence, occasionally grinning, because a woman labouring under a stigma would rattle-rattle, as if the laughter of the company were her due, and decency beneath her notice.  Some one alluded to a dog of Mrs. Warwick’s, whereupon she trips out a story of her dog’s amazing intelligence.

‘And pray,’ said Mrs. Cramborne Wathin across the table, merely to slip in a word, ‘what is the name of this wonderful dog?’

‘His name is Leander,’ said Diana.

’Oh, Leander.  I don’t think I hear myself calling to a dog in a name of three syllables.  Two at the most.’

No, so I call Hero! if I want him to come immediately,’ said Diana, and the gentlemen, to Mrs. Cramborne Wathin’s astonishment, acclaimed it.  Mr. Redworth, at her elbow, explained the point, to her disgust. . .

That was Diana’s offence.