In front of Mr. Wyvern stood a large cake, of which a portion was already sliced. The vicar, at Adela’s invitation, accepted a piece of the cake; having eaten this, he accepted another; then yet another. His absence had come back upon him, and he talked he continued to eat portions of the cake, till but a small fraction of the original structure remained on the dish. Alfred, keenly observant of what was going on, pursed his lips from time to time and looked at his mother with exaggerated gravity, leading her eyes to the vanishing cake. Even Adela could not but remark the reverend gentleman’s abnormal appetite, but she steadily discouraged her brother’s attempts to draw her into the joke. At length it came to pass that Mr. Wyvern himself, stretching his hand mechanically to the dish, became aware that he had exhibited his appreciation of the sweet food in a degree not altogether sanctioned by usage. He fixed his eyes on the tablecloth, and was silent for a while. As soon as the vicar had taken his departure Alfred threw himself into a chair, thrust out his legs, and exploded in laughter. ‘By Jove!’ he shouted. ‘If that man doesn’t experience symptoms of disorder! Why, I should be prostrate for a week if I consumed a quarter of what he has put out of sight.’ ‘Alfred, you are shockingly rude,’ reproved his mother, though herself laughing. ‘Mr. Wyvern is absorbed in thought.’ ‘Well, he has taken the best means, I should say, to remind himself of actualities,’ rejoined the youth. ‘But what a man he is! How did he behave in church this morning?’ ‘You should have come to see,’ said Mrs. Waltham, mildly censuring her son’s disregard of the means of grace. ‘I like Mr. Wyvern,’ observed Adela, who was standing at the window looking out upon the dusking valley. ‘Oh, you would like any man in parsonical livery,’ scoffed her brother. Alfred shortly betook himself to the garden, where, in spite of a decided freshness in the atmosphere, he walked for half-an-hour smoking a pipe. When he entered the house again, he met Adela at the foot of the stairs. ‘Mrs. Mewling has just come in,’ she whispered. ‘All right, I’ll come up with you,’ was the reply. ‘Heaven defend me from her small talk!’ They ascended to a very little room, which made a kind of boudoir for Adela. Alfred struck a match and lit a lamp, disclosing a nest of wonderful purity and neatness. On the table a drawing-board was slanted; it showed a text of Scripture in process of ‘illumination.’ ‘Still at that kind of thing!’ exclaimed Alfred. ‘My good child, if you want to paint, why don’t you paint in earnest? Really, Adela, I must enter a protest! Remember that you are eighteen years of age.’ ‘I don’t forget it, Alfred.’ ‘At eight-and-twenty, at eight-and-thirty, you propose still to be at the same stage of development?’ ‘I don’t think we’ll talk of it,’ said the girl quietly. ‘We don’t understand each other.’