The dinner passed in grave formality. Even Mr. Grimes seemed out of his element, being evidently, as Eulalie had said, “not _quite_ a gentleman,” either by birth or breeding, and lacking that something which makes the grandest gentlemen of all--Nature's. He tried now and then to open a conversation with the Miss Harpers, but Eulalie sneered at him aside, and Mary was politely dignified. Agatha took very little notice of him--her attention was absorbed by her father-in-law. Mr. Harper looked old--very old. His hands, blanched to a yellowish whiteness, moved about loosely and uncertainly. Once the large diamond mourning ring which the widower always wore, “In memory of Catherine Harper,” dropped off on the table-cloth. He did not perceive the loss until Agatha restored it, and then his fingers seemed unable to slip it on again, until his daughter-in-law aided him. In so doing, the clammy, nerveless feel of the old man's hand made her start. “Thank you, Mrs. Harper,” he said, acknowledging her assistance with his most solemn bend. “And Catherine--Agatha, I mean, if you would be so kind--that is”-- “Yes? observed Agatha, inquiringly, as he made a long pause. “To--remind me after dinner, my dear. I have duties now--important duties.--My friends!” Here he raised himself in his chair, looked round the dessert-laden table with one of his old smiles, half condescending, half good-humoured, then vainly put his hand on the large claret jug, which Agatha had to lift and guide to her glass--“My friends, I am delighted to see you all. And on this happy occasion let me have the honour of giving the first toast. The Reverend Frederick Harper and Mistress Mary Harper.” Mary and Eulalie drew back. “That is grandfather and grandmother--dead fifty years ago. What does papa mean?” But the whisper did not reach the old man, who drank the toast with all solemnity. Mr. Grimes did the same, repeating it loudly, with the addition of “long life, health, and happiness.” The daughters each cast down strange, shocked looks upon her untouched glass. No one spoke. “Do you make a long stay in Dorsetshire?” observed the Squire, addressing himself courteously to his guest. “That depends,” Grimes answered, with a meaning twinkle of the eye--an eye already growing moistened with too good wine. “Did you not say,” Mary Harper continued, fancying her father looked at her to sustain the conversation--“did you not say you were intending to visit Cornwall?” “No ma'am. Would rather be excused. As Mr. Harper knows, the place would be too hot to hold _me_ after certain circumstances.”