_Lady Cantire._ Nonsense, my dear, no walk at all; the church is only just across the park. My brother Rupert always goes, and it pleases him to see the Wyvern pew as full as possible. I seldom feel equal to going myself, because I find the necessity of allowing pulpit inaccuracies to pass without a protest gets too much on my nerves; but my daughter will accompany you. You'll have just time to run up and get your things on. _Mrs. Chatteris_ (_with arch significance_). I don't _fancy_ I shall have the pleasure of your daughter's society this morning. I just met her going to get the garden keys; I think she has promised to show the grounds to---- Well, I needn't mention _whom_. Oh dear me, I hope I'm not being indiscreet _again_! _Lady Cantire._ I make a point of never interfering with my daughter's proceedings, and you can easily understand how natural it is that such old friends as they have always been---- _Mrs. Chatteris._ Really? I _thought_ they seemed to take a great pleasure in one another's society. It's quite romantic. But I must rush up and get my bonnet on if I'm to go to church. (_To herself, as she goes out._) So she _was_ "Lady Grisoline," after all! If I was her mother---- But dear Lady Cantire is so advanced about things. _Lady Cantire_ (_to herself_). Darling Maisie! He'll be Lord Dunderhead before very long. How sensible and sweet of her! And I was quite uneasy about them last night at dinner; they scarcely seemed to be talking to each other at all. But there's a great deal more in dear Maisie than one would imagine. _Sir Rupert_ (_outside_). We're rather proud of our church, Mr. Undershell--fine old monuments and brasses, if you care about that sort of thing. Some of us will be walking over to service presently, if you would like to---- _Undershell_ (_outside--to himself_). And lose my _tête-à-tête_ with Lady Maisie! Not exactly! (_Aloud._) I am afraid, Sir Rupert, that I cannot conscientiously---- _Sir Rupert_ (_hastily_). Oh, very well, very well; do exactly as you like about it, of course. I only thought---- (_To himself._) Now, that _other_ young chap would have gone! _Lady Cantire._ Rupert, who is that you are talking to out there? I don't recognise his voice, somehow. _Sir Rupert_ (_entering with_ UNDERSHELL). Ha, Rohesia, you've come down, then? slept well, I hope. I was talking to a gentleman whose acquaintance I know you will be very happy to make--at last. This is the genuine celebrity _this_ time. (_To_ UNDERSHELL.) Let me make you known to my sister, Lady Cantire, Mr. Undershell. (_As_ Lady CANTIRE _glares interrogatively_.) Mr. Clarion Blair, Rohesia, author of hum--ha--_Andromache_. _Lady Cantire._ I thought we were given to understand last night that Mr. Spurrell--Mr. Blair--you must pardon me, but it's really so very confusing--that the writer of the--ah--volume in question had already left Wyvern.