‘I could believe anything of a Yankee,’ answered Gerald, unmoved by these reproaches. ‘But why Wilmcote? why Snitterfield? They are as poky little settlements as you could find in any agricultural district.’ ‘Did you ever hear of such hideous ignorance?’ cried Daphne, ‘and in a son of the soil. You are most unworthy of the honour of having been raised in Shakespeare’s country. Why John Shakespeare was born at Snitterfield, and Mary Arden lived with her father at Wilmcote; and it was there he courted her.’ ‘John—Mary—oh, distant relations of the poet’s, I suppose?’ inquired Gerald easily. ‘This is revolting,’ exclaimed Daphne; ‘but he is shamming—he must be shamming.’ ‘Punish him for his ignorance, whether it is real or pretended,’ cried Edgar. ‘Make him row us all down to Stratford to-morrow morning; and then we’ll walk him over to Shottery, and make him give a new gown to the nice old woman who keeps the cottage.’ ‘A new gown,’ echoed Daphne contemptuously; ‘he ought to be made to give her a cow—a beautiful mouse-coloured Channel Island cow.’ ‘I’ll give her anything you like, as long as you don’t bore me to death about Shakespeare. I hate sights and lions of all kinds. I went through Frankfort without looking at the house where Goethe was born.’ ‘A depraved desire to be singular,’ said the Rector. ‘I think he ought to forfeit a cow to Mrs. Baker. Rhoda, my love,’ glancing furtively at his watch, ‘our friends are all here. Todd is usually more punctual.’ Mrs. Ferrers, Lina, and Mrs. Turchill had strolled out to join the others. The prim rustic matron was looking at Daphne with astonishment rather than admiration. She was pretty, no doubt. Mrs. Turchill had never seen a more transparent complexion, or lovelier eyes; but there was a reckless vivacity about the girl’s manner which horrified the thoroughly British matron. ‘Daphne,’ said Edgar, ‘I hope you haven’t forgotten my mother. Mother, this is Daphne.’ Mrs. Turchill drew back a pace or two with extreme deliberation, and sank gracefully in the curtsy which she had been taught by the Leamington dancing-master—an undoubted Parisian—five-and-thirty years ago. After the curtsy she extended her hand and allowed Daphne to shake it. ‘Come, Mrs. Turchill,’ said the Rector, offering his arm. ‘Goring, bring Miss Lawford; Turchill will take care of my wife; and Daphne’—he paused, smiling at the fair young face and slender girlish figure in soft white muslin—‘Daphne shall have my other arm, and sit on my left hand. I feel there is a bond of friendship between us now that I find she is so fond of Shakespeare.’ ‘I’m afraid I know Hamlet’s soliloquies better than I do my duty to my neighbour,’ said Daphne, on the way to the dining-room, remembering how the Rector used to glower at her under his heavy brows when she broke down in that portion of the Church Catechism.