She would not look at them, but she knew that they were all dressed better than she was; there were some of them very poor, and very vulgar, too, but they were all dressed better than her, and without a doubt had sound boots on their feet. The cottagers in Coombe hamlet always had sound boots; she never had; nor, indeed, her mother. Her father had a pair, being compelled by the character of his work in the fields to take care of himself so far, though he wore a ragged coat. But neither mother nor daughter ever had a whole pair of boots--whole and sound as the very cottagers had. If Amaryllis had sat there with naked feet she would have been prouder than ever, and that is why I always loved her so; she was not to be put down by circumstances, she was above external things. But as time went on, and the dinner was nearly over--she had scarcely eaten anything--and as she glanced from time to time at her father's empty chair, and knew that he would not come, and that his defection would revive the old quarrel which might so easily have been mended, the Flamma blood began to rise and grow hotter and hotter, and the foot with the worn boot on it began to tap the floor. The Flamma blood would have liked to have swept the whole company over a precipice into the Red Sea as the herd of swine in old time. It was either the Red Sea or somewhere; geography is of no consequence. Spain's an island near Morocco, betwixt Egypt and Tangier. The Flamma blood would have liked to have seen them all poisoned and dying on their seats. The Flamma blood would have been glad to stick a knife into each of them--only it would not have touched them with the longest hop-pole in Kent, so utter was its loathing of the crew gloating over that empty chair. And for once Amaryllis did not check it, and did not say to herself, "I _will_ not be a Flamma." Towards the end of the tedious banquet the word was passed round that everyone was to sit still, as Grandfather Iden was coming to look at his descendants. There was not the least fear of any of them stirring, for they well knew his custom--to walk round, and speak a few words to everyone in turn, and to put a new golden sovereign into their hands. Thirty-two sovereigns it was in all--one for each--but the thirty-third was always a spade-guinea, which was presented to the individual who had best pleased him during the year. A genial sort of custom, no doubt, but fancy the emulation and the heart-burning over the spade-guinea! For the fortunate winner usually considered himself the nearest to the Will.