But perhaps Emma’s sorest moments were when those whom she naively termed ‘persons of importance’ came to visit Sebastian. To Emma, every one with a title was a person of importance, be they never so unimportant in reality, and it seemed to her that Sebastian intentionally said and did the wrong things to such personages. There was one terrible night when ‘a Marquis’ (enough that the mystic dignity was his) honoured the little house in Jermyn Street with a visit, and Sebastian, all unheeding of coughs and frowns from his wife, must press this exalted visitor to sup with them. Now on this ill-fated night Emma had chosen to feed her lord and master on pig’s feet and fried liver—viands whose price, or rather want of price, is almost proverbial. It was, indeed, from no sordid motives of economy that Emma had so furnished forth her board, but from the desire to please Sebastian, whose taste in food was incurably vulgar. How could she have anticipated that burning moment when her faltering tongue must frame the words— ‘My Lord, may I offer you some of these pig’s feet, or mayhap your Lordship would relish some of this fried liver more?’ And as if this was not bitter enough, did not Sebastian break into a laugh that shook the glasses on the table, crying out— ‘Faith, Emma, had you known we were to entertain the quality to-night, I had not had my liver and pig’s feet!’ Emma smiled faintly, for tears were not far off; and the Marquis, seeing her perturbation, told the story of the liver they got at Blenheim, that the officers swore was shoe-leather,—‘A different dish from your fine cookery, madam,’ he said, begging for another helping of the dish. But it was a life-long lesson to poor Emma: she never ordered liver for supper again without a pang of foreboding. Then the matter of Church observances had arisen between these young people. Emma was a devout Church-woman; Sebastian did not hold much to one persuasion or another, and certainly was not fond of Church services. Emma all her life had gone every Sunday to the curious little old church of St. Mary Minories, and after her marriage expected Sebastian to go there with her. The first Sunday morning after her marriage Emma came down-stairs in her church-going attire, and in rather a shocked voice expressed her astonishment to find Sebastian smoking by the fire, instead of making any preparation for coming with her. ‘Charlotte will be here in the coach immediately,’ she said. ‘Hasten, Sebastian, we shall be late at St. Mary’s.’ ‘St. Mary’s?’ queried Sebastian. ‘St. Mary Minories, where it hath always been our custom to attend divine service—come, Sebastian, pray lay aside your pipe!’ Sebastian leant forward, pressing down the tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. He made no reply. ‘Are you not coming to church? Perhaps some patients require your care——’ began Emma. She came and laid her hand on his shoulder in gentle remonstrance. ‘No, I cannot come.’