I am rather disposed to think that something in my too honest face proclaimed what I thought; I felt it glow, and I was out of humour: Mr. Snughead of course had the advantage of me, for with much officiousness he endeavoured to be _agreeable_. _I was the rebel Rachel Cowley_,—I could not help it, Lucy. On reaching the hall, I followed Mr. Snughead’s steps, on whose arm Miss Flint leaned; and I overheard the puppy say, “Proud enough in conscience!” “Inconceivably so,” was the reply. Yes, Lucy, I am proud, I disdain the civility that can simper at the conceits of a Mr. Snughead, and despise the impudence of any clerical man, who forgetting himself, and the respect that is due to his profession, fancies his _dress_ is to enforce respect from others. What right has a reptile of this class to the tribute which all pay to a Sedley? No, no! I am too provident “to cast pearls before swine.” You know my infirmity, Lucy; I have now taken a rooted antipathy to this Mr. Snughead, not only as he is a contemptible creature, but because he irritated me to anger. I was vexed and out of humour with myself. The kindly greetings of the collected family were lost upon me, and I was on the point of quitting the room, when luckily, I observed Sir Murdock’s cold and ceremonious bow to the intruder. A placid and contracted air yielded to a suffusion of his Scotch “_blude_,” which for a moment mantled in his cheek: this moment was of use to me, I recollected myself. My gaiety succeeded to this little triumph, and even Mr. Snughead was treated with _civility_. An excellent dinner was a temptation I should have supposed this gentleman had been proof against; I will not say that he eat like an epicure, but most assuredly he eat more than his waistcoat allowed, for he suddenly complained of a most violent pain in his stomach, and Miss Flint prescribed a glass of rum. My tender heart melted, and I was just going to recommend slackening his waistcoat, when I saw him have recourse to the remedy. He breathed more freely, and attributing his indisposition to the extreme heat of the day, perfected the cure by untying his cravat. But I am doomed to be incorrigible on certain points! I have not been able to get rid of my antipathy for this animal. Now attend to the conversation. “I hope you found Mrs. Snughead’s health improved on your return home.” This was a question from the lady of the mansion, who, till the cloth was removed, had not found time to talk. “I cannot flatter myself! She is, my lady, still very ill, very ill indeed: I am in constant anxiety, and have too much reason to fear that she will shorten her days by yielding to her complaint, which is _merely_ nervous. She is never out of the apothecary’s hands, and it is my opinion, medicine does her more harm than good.” The unfeigned sorrow with which Mr. Snughead delivered this opinion, induced Miss Flint to take the part of the comforter. “She will soon be better,” observed she,