“But, Mr. Shapleigh, how can we possibly have Richard Skelton to dinner, when he is accustomed to so much elegance abroad? And although we live as well as any people in the county, yet it is nothing to what he will have at Deerchase.” “Then, my life, we won’t have Skelton to dinner.” “Now, Mr. Shapleigh, how you talk! You contradict yourself at every other word.--Sylvia, what have you to say on the subject? I declare, you read so much you don’t know anything. The simplest thing seems to puzzle you.” “Not at all, mamma!” cried Sylvia, with spirit, and bringing her book together with a clap. “Have Mr. Skelton to dinner, by all means--just as we would have the Blairs, or any other of the neighbours. I don’t care a fig for his elegance. We are just as good as the Skeltons any day; and any one of us--papa, or you, or I--is twice as good-looking as Mr. Skelton.” Sylvia was fond of disparaging Skelton both to herself and to other people. “Sylvia! Sylvia, my child!” screamed Mrs. Shapleigh; “your vanity is very unladylike, and, besides, it is sinful, too. Nobody ever heard _me_ say such a thing, although I had a much greater reputation for good looks than you ever had. But if my glass pleased me, _I_ never said anything.” “You very seldom say anything, my love,” remarked old Tom, quite gravely. “Well, Mr. Shapleigh, I hope the next time you get married you will marry a loquacious woman, and then, perhaps, you’ll long for your poor, dear, humble Belinda. But to get back to the dinner. Of course, we must have everything just as nearly like the way they have it at Deerchase as possible, although how on earth we can have things the least like they do at Deerchase, even if I put out every piece of glass and silver I have in the world, is more than I can tell. But whom shall we ask? That queer person that Richard Skelton brought home to write his book--Mr. Bulstrode?” “Yes, by all means,” cried old Tom, grinning. “He looks to me likely to be an ornament to society.” “And Mr. and Mrs. Blair?” “Exactly, my love. Blair and Skelton hate each other like the devil; and Mrs. Blair jilted Skelton, and I daresay has been sorry for it ever since. Oh, yes, we’ll have the Blairs, madam.” “And Mr. Conyers?” “Gadzooks, madam, you’re a genius! Skelton doesn’t believe in hell in the next world, and Conyers is trying to make a little hell of his own in Abingdon parish; so they will do excellently well together.” “Mr. Shapleigh, you don’t mean to tell me that Richard Skelton doesn’t _believe in hell_?” asked Mrs. Shapleigh in a shocked voice. “I do, indeed, my sweet. I’m not sure that he believes in a personal devil, or the horns and the hoofs, or even the tail.”