“Oh, fresh air--yes,” replied young Mr. Cullingworth, his tone betraying several degrees more of disdain than before. “One gets a little too much of that; but of most of the other things which help to make life endurable one gets next to nothing down here. It really is the slowest hole you ever were in, and I shall be obliged to think much worse of you than I should like to do if you don’t heartily wish yourself out of it before very long.” “I’m horribly afraid I shall have, then, to reconcile myself to that fall in your estimation,” said Chris, smiling. “I like this place much, much better than London. London is only pleasant when you’re rich enough to get out of it whenever you like. Now we were not rich enough--my mother and I--so we were very glad to come down here.” “Awfully lucky for us down here,” said Mr. Cullingworth, without enthusiasm. For he was not so deeply buried in the provinces as to fall in love with every pretty face he met. “Wonder what on earth made this Bradfield take it into his head to settle down here, don’t you?” “I suppose he had heard of it as a nice place, and a healthy place,” suggested Chris. “He’s been awfully lucky in being taken up by all the best people in the place, hasn’t he?” Now Chris had nothing to say to this, for she thought the “best people” were very lucky in being taken up by Mr. Bradfield. They were mostly poor and proud, which is not a nice combination, and they showed their poverty in their eagerness to avail themselves of Mr. Bradfield’s invitations, and their pride in their unanimity in not inviting him back. Mr. Cullingworth, luckily, did not wait for an answer, but resumed, with admiration: “Why, there’s all the very best society of Wyngham here to-night, there is, indeed. I suppose you know them all, don’t you?” Chris, who thought the assembly decidedly unprepossessing, regretted her ignorance, and said she supposed they would rather look down upon her than seek her society. But Mr. Cullingworth, as representing the “best society” of Wyngham, was magnanimous. He didn’t think there was any feeling of that sort, “’pon his word he didn’t.” There might have been, of course, if some little bird had not happily whispered about that Mrs. Abercarne was the widow of an officer in the army, and a cousin of Lord Llanfyllin’s. As it was, Mr. Cullingworth felt sure that the “best people” were ready to receive her and her mother as equals. “If you want to know who anybody is, you know, why, I’ll tell you,” said he, obligingly. Chris, obliging too, asked the name of a tall, bald-headed man, who, although not particularly interesting in appearance, looked like a gentleman. Mr. Cullingworth’s face fell a little, but he answered at once: “Oh, that Sir George Brandram. Don’t know much about him, he’s a Wosham man.”