Then after a day of quiet usefulness about her house the worthy matron would collect her energies over a leisurely cup of tea, and perhaps allow herself the refreshment of a nap after her tea, before she began the solemn business of the toilet. The carriage had been ordered for a quarter past seven, though it was but half an hour’s drive to Arden Rectory, and at seven o’clock Mrs. Turchill was seated in the white parlour, in all the dignity of her velvet gown and point-lace cap, her hereditary amethysts, supposed to be second only to those once possessed by George the Third’s virtuous consort, and her scarlet and gold Indian shawl. She was a comely matron, with a complexion that had never been damaged by cark or care, gas or late hours: a rosy-faced country-bred dame, with bright blue eyes, white teeth, and plentiful brown hair, in which the silver threads were hardly visible. Edgar was standing by the open window, just where he had stood in the morning with his gun, sorely perplexed as to the disposal of those fifteen minutes which had to be got through before the most punctual of coachmen would bring the carriage to the door. The London papers were lying unheeded on the table; but Edgar had felt very little interest of late in the welfare of nations, or even in the last dreadful murder in Whitechapel. ‘I hope my cap is right,’ said Mrs. Turchill anxiously. ‘How could it be wrong, mother, when you’ve Deborah and your looking-glass, and have never been known to dress yourself in a hurry?’ ‘I dislike doing anything in a hurry, Edgar. It is against my principles. But I never feel sure about the set of my cap. I am afraid Deborah’s eye is not quite correct, and a glass is dreadfully deceiving. I wish you’d look, Edgar, if it isn’t too much trouble.’ This was said reproachfully, as her son was kneeling on the window-seat staring idly down into the moat, as if he wanted to discover the whereabouts of an ancient pike that had evaded him last year. ‘My dear mother,’ he exclaimed, turning himself about to survey her, ‘to my eye—which may be no better than Deborah’s—that lace arrangement which you call a cap appears mathematically exact, as precise as your own straight, honest mind. There’s Dobson with the carriage. Come along, mother.’ He led her out, established her comfortably in her own particular seat in the large landau, and seated himself opposite to her with a beaming countenance. ‘How happy you look, Edgar!’ said Mrs. Turchill, wondering at this unusual radiance. ‘One would think it were a novelty for you to dine out. Yet I am sure,’ somewhat plaintively, ‘you don’t very often dine at home.’ ‘The Rectory dinners are not to be despised, mother.’