It was the Vicar’s way in these _tête-à-tête_ conversations by the domestic hearth. He read, and his wife talked to him. He could keep his attention on the most intricate chain of argument, and yet never answer Mrs. Dulcimer’s speculative assertions or vague questionings away from the purpose. This was the happy result of long habit. The Vicar loved his books, and his wife loved the exercise of her tongue. His morning hours were sacred. He studied or read as he pleased till dinner-time, secure from feminine interruption. But the evening was a privileged time for Mrs. Dulcimer. She brought a big workbasket, like an inverted beehive, into the library directly after dinner, and established herself in the arm-chair opposite the Vicar’s, ready for a comfortable chat. A comfortable chat meant a vivacious monologue, with an occasional remark from Mr. Dulcimer, who came in now and then like a chorus. He had his open book on the reading easel attached to his chair, and turned the leaves with a languid air, sometimes as if out of mere absence of mind; but he was deep in philosophy, or metaphysics, or theology, or antiquarianism, for the greater part of his time; and his inward ear was listening to the mystic voices of the dead, while his outward ear gave respectful attention to Mrs. Dulcimer’s critical observations upon the living. ‘As poor as Job, and as proud as Lucifer,’ repeated the Vicar, with his eye upon a stiffish passage in Berkeley. ‘I call it a proper pride,’ said Mrs. Dulcimer. ‘And as for poverty, she would have money enough for both. And then he has the estate.’ ‘Mortgaged up to the hilt.’ ‘And the title.’ ‘Now do you really believe, Selina, that those three letters of the alphabet, S I R, prefixed to a man’s name, can give him the smallest possible distinction in the estimate of any of his fellow-creatures not lunatic?’ ‘What is the use of talking in that high and mighty way, Clement? I know that Mary Turner, an insignificant little thing with red hair and a speckly skin, who was at school with me at the Misses Turk’s, at Great Yafford, was very much looked up to by all the girls because her uncle was a baronet. He lived a long way off, and he never took any notice of her, that we could find out; but he was a baronet, and we all felt as if there was a difference in her on that account. I don’t pretend to say that we were not very ridiculous for thinking so, but still you know a school is only the world in little--and the world sets a high value on titles. I should like to see Beatrix mistress of Culverhouse Castle.’ ‘Her father’s money would be convenient for paying off the mortgages, no doubt, provided Mr. Harefield approved of the marriage. Rather a difficult old gentleman, I fancy.’ ‘Difficult!’ cried Mrs. Dulcimer; ‘he’s detestable! a wicked old tyrant. If it were not for our friendship Beatrix’s life would be unendurable.’