“Ah, by the way, so he was. The time’s getting on too,” said his lordship, looking at his watch. “But he only got to Diplow the other day. He came to us on Tuesday and said he had been a little bothered. He may have been pulled in another direction. Why, Gascoigne!”—the rector was just then crossing at a little distance with Gwendolen on his arm, and turned in compliance with the call—“this is a little too bad; you not only beat us yourself, but you bring up your niece to beat all the archeresses.” “It _is_ rather scandalous in her to get the better of elder members,” said Mr. Gascoigne, with much inward satisfaction curling his short upper lip. “But it is not my doing, my lord. I only meant her to make a tolerable figure, without surpassing any one.” “It is not my fault, either,” said Gwendolen, with pretty archness. “If I am to aim, I can’t help hitting.” “Ay, ay, that may be a fatal business for some people,” said Lord Brackenshaw, good-humoredly; then taking out his watch and looking at Mrs. Arrowpoint again—“The time’s getting on, as you say. But Grandcourt is always late. I notice in town he’s always late, and he’s no bowman—understands nothing about it. But I told him he must come; he would see the flower of the neighborhood here. He asked about you—had seen Arrowpoint’s card. I think you had not made his acquaintance in town. He has been a good deal abroad. People don’t know him much.” “No; we are strangers,” said Mrs. Arrowpoint. “But that is not what might have been expected. For his uncle Sir Hugo Mallinger and I are great friends when we meet.” “I don’t know; uncles and nephews are not so likely to be seen together as uncles and nieces,” said his lordship, smiling toward the rector. “But just come with me one instant, Gascoigne, will you? I want to speak a word about the clout-shooting.”