Eliza returned to the dining-room, where her assistant was engaged in laying the table, and aired her grievances anew in Ellen's more sympathetic ears. Ellen, being in a subordinate position, was forced into the awkward predicament of being obliged to hunt with the hounds and run with the hare. She stood in awe of Eliza, and did her utmost to propitiate her; therefore, upon Eliza's reiterated complaint that her legs were giving under her, she redoubled her own energies, and did more than her share of the work. But not being a qualified parlourmaid, which Eliza, with a disregard for exactness, professed to be, she could not relieve her superior of the agreeable task of waiting at table, though she performed all the intermediate duties between kitchen and dining-room while the dinner was in progress, and was greatly interested in and impressed with the splendour of Mrs Chadwick, if somewhat disconcerted by this, her first, view of ladies dining in evening dress. The elegance of the ladies, and the imposing spectacle of Mr Musgrave's shirt front, filled her with wondering admiration; while the gay, careless chatter of the strangers, and Mr Errol's easy and amusing talk, caused her to forget at times that she was present in the capacity of servitor, and not an interested spectator of a new kind of kinema. Eliza's deportment in its aloof detachment was admirable; the merriest sally of wit was lost upon her, and Mrs Chadwick's surprising knack of telling daring stories elicited no more than a disapproving sniff. Eliza was as wonderful in her way as the guests, in Ellen's opinion. The enjoyment ended for Ellen with the placing of the dessert on the table, and the closing of the dining-room door but she carried the wonder of all she had heard and seen to the kitchen, and there related it for the benefit of Martha and Mr King, who had looked in with a view to dining late himself. Eliza, collapsed in an arm-chair, pronounced herself too weary to eat. The enjoyment for Mr Musgrave began where it should have ended, with the departure of the ladies from the dining-room. He closed the door upon them with formal politeness, and then returned to his seat with an air as collapsed as Eliza's, and lighted himself a cigar. The vicar, lighting a cigar also, looked across at him, and smiled. "She will certainly," he said, "wake Moresby up." John Musgrave took the cigar from his mouth, and examined the lighted end thoughtfully, a frown contracting his brow as though the sight of a cigar annoyed him. Since he was in reality addicted to cigar smoking, the frown was probably induced by his reflections. "I am not in sympathy with advanced women," he remarked, after a pause. "A woman should be womanly." He frowned again, and regarded the vicar through the chrysanthemums decorating the centre of the table.