“She would have thought her heart would be broken,” pursued Gertrude.  “Whereas now she owns that it is the best thing, and a great relief, for she could not attend to Cocksmoor and my father both.  We want her to take a holiday, but she never will.  Once she did when Blanche and Hector came to stay, but he was not happy, hardly well, and I don’t think she will ever leave him again.”

“Mrs. Rivers is working still in London?”

“Oh yes; I don’t know what the charities of all kinds and descriptions would do without her.”

“No,” said Clement from his easy-chair.  “She is a most valuable person.  She has such good judgment.”

“It has been her whole life ever since poor George Rivers’ fatal accident,” said Gertrude.  “I hardly remember her before she was married, except a sense that I was naughty with her, and then she was terribly sad.  But since she gave up Abbotstoke to young Dickie May she has been much brighter, and she can do more than any one at Cocksmoor.  She manages Cocksmoor and London affairs in her own way, and has two houses and young Mrs. Dickie on her hands to boot.”

“How many societies is she chairwoman of?” said Lance.  “I counted twenty-four pigeon-holes in her cabinet one day, and I believe there was a society for each of them; but I must say she is quiet about them.”

“It is fine to see the little hen-of-the-walk of Cocksmoor lower her crest to her!” said Gertrude, “when Ethel has not thought it worth while to assert herself, being conscious of being an old fogey.”

“And your Bishop?”

“Norman?  I do believe he is coming home next year.  I think he really would if papa begged him, but that he—-my father, I mean-—said he would never do so; though I believe nothing would be such happiness to him as to have Norman and Meta at home again.  You know they came home on George’s death, but then those New Somersetas went and chose him Bishop, and there he is for good.”

“For good indeed,” said Clement; “he is a great power there.”

“So are his books,” added Geraldine.  “Will Harewood sets great store by them.  Ah!  I hear our young folks-—or is that a carriage?”

Emilia and Gerald came in simultaneously with Marilda, expanded into a portly matron, as good-humoured as ever, and better-looking than long ago.

She was already insisting on Gerald’s coming to a party of hers and bringing his violin, and only interrupted her persuasions to greet and congratulate Clement.

Gerald, lying back on a sofa, and looking tired, only replied in a bantering, lazy manner.

“Ah! if I asked you to play to the chimney-sweeps,” she said, “you would come fast enough, you idle boy.  And you, Annie, do you know you are coming to me for the season when your uncle and aunt go out of town?”

“Indeed, Cousin Marilda, thank you, I don’t know it, and I don’t believe it.”

“Ah, we’ll see!  You haven’t thought of the dresses you two are to have for the Drawing-Room from Worth’s, and Lady Caergwent to present you.”