"Look here," said Thorne, laying his hand on the other's sleeve, "you know every one. Who and what are these Blakes?" "Bless me! you don't mean you don't know? Why, the name's up in every railway-station in the United Kingdom. 'Patent British Corn-Flour'--that's the man. 'Delicious Pudding in Five Minutes'--you know the sort of thing. I don't know that he does much in it now: I suppose he has a share. Very rich, they say." Mr. Thorne had withdrawn his hand, and was listening with the utmost composure. "Ah!" he said, "very rich? And so all these good Fordborough people are paying court to him?" "No," Garnett grinned, "they don't get the chance: don't see much of him. No loss. They pay court to the daughters: it does just as well, and it's a great deal pleasanter. Dear! dear! what a money-loving age it is! Nothing but trade, trade, trade! We shall see a duke behind the counter before long if we go on at this rate. Gentlemen used to be more particular in our young days--eh, Thorne?" Having said this, he remembered that Thorne's son married the candlemaker's daughter. For a moment he was confounded, and then had to repress an inclination to laugh. "Ah, it was a different world altogether," said Thorne, gliding dexterously away from the corn-flour and candles too. "There was a young fellow staying with us a little while ago who was wild about photography. If he didn't get just the right focus, the thing came out all wrong: he always made a mess of his groups. The focus was right for us in our young days, eh? Now we have to stand on one side and come out all awry. No fault in the sun, you know."