‘And then she goes to the larder and looks at the joints to see if there have been “followers” overnight,’ suggested Kenrick; ‘and according to her theological reading is the keenness of her eye and the acidity of her temper. If she has been reading Jeremy Taylor she takes a liberal view of the sirloin, and orders a hot joint for the servants’ hall; if she has been reading old Latimer she is humorous and caustic, and declares cold meat too good for domestic sinners. But if her pious meditations have been directed by Baxter or Charnock I pity the cook. There will be short commons in the servants’ hall that day.’ Bella laughed heartily. She had a pretty laugh, and she made it a rule to laugh at any sally of Sir Kenrick’s. It is something for a penniless village lawyer’s daughter to be on familiar terms with a baronet, even though his estate be ever so heavily mortgaged. Bella felt that her intimacy with the Vicarage and its surroundings lifted her above the rest of the Scratchells. Her younger sisters used to ask her what Sir Kenrick was like, and if he wore thick-soled boots like common people, and ever drank anything so vulgar as beer. The supper went on merrily. The Vicar talked of men and of books, the younger men joining in just enough to sustain the conversation. Supper at the Vicarage, substantial as the meal was, seemed more or less an excuse for sitting at a table talking, for a couple of hours at a stretch. Long after the sirloin had been carried off to do duty in the kitchen, Mr. Dulcimer sat in the carver’s seat, sipping his claret and talking of men and books. Beatrix could not imagine anything more delightful than those Sunday evening discourses. But now came a message from the footman in the kitchen to remind his mistress that it was half-past ten. The rule at the Water House was for every door to be locked and bolted when the clock struck eleven. Beatrix started up, like Cinderella at the ball. ‘Oh, Mrs. Dulcimer, I had no idea it was so late.’ ‘A tribute to my conversation, or a proof of your patience, my dear,’ said the Vicar. ‘Cyril, you’ll see Miss Harefield home. Jane, run and get Miss Harefield’s bonnet.’ ‘Kenrick can see Beatrix home while Cyril tells us about the missionary meeting,’ said that artful Mrs. Dulcimer. ‘My dear Mrs. Dulcimer, I can tell you about the missionary meeting this minute,’ said Cyril. ‘I have had a letter from Mr. Vickerman, and he will be very happy to preach in the morning this day three weeks, and to give a lecture in the schoolroom in the evening.’ The neat little parlourmaid came back laden with jackets and bonnets, and Beatrix and Isabella equipped themselves quickly for their walk. ‘We really don’t want any one,’ remarked Beatrix, blushing, as the two young men followed them into the hall. ‘Parker is here to take care of us.’ Parker pulled his forelock assentingly.