The Rector of Summerhayes was the Miss Harwoods’ brother, much younger however, unmarried, and rather a fine man in his way. He had a little dinner, as it happened, the same evening. His table only held six, Mr Harwood said. The rectory was an old-fashioned house, and the dining-room would have quite admitted a table which could dine twenty—but such were not the Rector’s inclinations. There are enough men in the neighbourhood of Summerhayes to make it very possible to vary your parties pleasantly when you have a table that only holds six, whereas with a large number you can only have the same people over and over again; and Mr Harwood did not like to be bored. He had a friend with him from town, as he always had on such occasions. He had his curate, and young Chesterfield from Dalton, and Major Aldborough, and Dr Gossett; rather a village party—as he explained to Mr Temple, the stranger—but not bad company. The dinner was a very good one, like all the Rector’s little dinners, and was consumed with that judicious reticence in the way of talk, and wise suspension of wit, which is only practicable in a party composed of men. By means of this sensible quietness, the dinner was done full justice to, and the company expanded into full force over their wine. Then the conversation became animated. The Rector, it is true, indulged in ten minutes’ parish talk with the Doctor, while Mr Temple and Major Aldborough opened the first parallel of a political duel, and young Chesterfield discoursed on the last Meet to poor Mr Spencer, who, reduced into curate-hood and economy, still felt his mouth water over such forbidden pleasures. Then Mr Harwood himself introduced the subject which at that time reigned paramount over all other subjects at Summerhayes. “So Tom Summerhayes is going to marry little Mrs Clifford,” said the Rector; “hadn’t you heard of it? Yes, these grapes are from Fontanel. She has a capital gardener, and her conservatories are the finest in the county. A very pleasant little house altogether, though there are some particulars about her table which one feels to be feeble. Her dinners are always a little defective since poor Clifford’s death—too mild, you know—too sweet—want the severer taste of a man.” “Mrs Clifford—a pretty little woman with brown eyes?” said Mr Temple. “I’ve met her somewhere. So she gives dinners, does she? When I saw her she was in the recluse line. I suppose that didn’t last.” “It lasted quite long enough,” said Dr Gossett; “nothing could be more proper, or more ladylike, or more satisfactory in every way. If I had a wife and were unluckily to die, I should wish her just to wear her weeds and so forth like Mrs Clifford—a charming woman; what should we do without her in the parish? but as for Tom Summerhayes——”