The county people had just strength of mind to like the old boy’s sociable dinners, though not to imitate them, and an invitation from him was very rarely declined when Lucy was with him.

And she was in her glory.  She could carry complaisance such a long way at Font Abbey—­she was mistress of the house.

She listened with a wonderful appearance of interest to county matters, i.e., to minute scandal and infinitesimal politics; to the county cricket match and archery meeting; to the past ball and the ball to come.  In the drawing-room, when a cold fit fell on the coterie, she would glide to one egotist after another, find out the monotope, and set the critter Peter’s, the Place de Concorde, the Square of St. Mark, Versailles, the Alhambra, the Apollo Belvidere, the Madonna of the Chair, and all the glories of nature and the feats of art could not warm.  So, then, the fine gentleman began to act—­to walk himself out as a person who had seen and could give details about anything, but was exalted far above admiring anything (quel grand homme! rien ne peut lui plaire); and on this, while the women were gazing sweetly on him, and revering his superiority to all great impressions, and the men envying, rather hating, but secretly admiring him too, she who had launched him bent on him a look of soft pity, and abandoned him to admiration.

“Poor Mr. Talboys,” thought she, “I fear I have done him an ill turn by drawing him out;” and she glided to her uncle, who was sitting apart, and nobody talking to him.

Mr. Talboys, started by Lucy, ambled out his high-pacing nil admirantem character, and derived a little quiet self-satisfaction.  This was the highest happiness he was capable of; so he was not ungrateful to Miss Fountain, who had procured it him, and partly for this, partly because he had been kind to her and lent her a pony, he shook hands with her somewhat cordially at parting.  As it happened, he was the last guest.

“You have won that, man’s heart, Lucy,” cried Mr. Fountain, with a mixture of surprise and pride.

Lucy made no reply.  She looked quickly into his face to see if he was jesting.

“Writing, Lucy—­so late?”

“Only a few lines, uncle.  You shall see them; I note the more remarkable phenomena of society.  I am recalling a conversation between three of our guests this evening, and shall be grateful for your opinion on it.  There!  Read it out, please.”

Mrs. Luttrell.  “We missed you at the archery meeting—­ha! ha! ha!”

Mrs. Willis.  “Mr. Willis would not let me go—­he! he! he!”

Mrs. James.  “Well, at all events—­he! he!—­you will come to the flower show.”

Mrs. Willis.  “Oh yes!—­he! he!—­I am so fond of flowers—­ha! ha!”

Mrs. Luttrell.  “So am I. I adore them—­he! he!”

Mrs. Willis.  “How sweetly Miss Malcolm sings—­he! he!”

Mrs. Luttrell.  “Yes, she shakes like a bird—­ha! ha!”