“I have often noticed,” he said, “that when we have a mild rainy November, the cold is bitter in spring. Have you remarked that, Bertie? But, to be sure, you are not a country bird, you don’t know much about the weather; but you will learn, you will learn before you are my age.” “It seems a simple enough conclusion, and I don’t mind accepting it as part of my creed,” said the Rector with a laugh, in which, however, there was some surprise mixed, for he did not understand what motive his uncle could have in placing himself there to make this very unimportant remark. “They tell me the meet is to be here to-morrow,” said Sir John; “and some of the ladies are going to ride. I am very glad Lucy doesn’t hunt. You had better come up and make yourself useful, Bertie, now that there’s nobody in the house. I suppose you don’t ride now to speak of? Of course, there’s Durant; I don’t know what his fancy is. I never was a cross-country man myself. I was always fond of more serious pursuits. Your father now, my brother Tony, he was always fond of it--a sort of practical fellow. As for me, I always took a pleasure in more serious things.” “You were born for Parliament, Sir,” said the Rector, half with veiled satire, half with a disposition to please his uncle, who had been kind enough, and from whom more kindness yet might come. “Well, yes, perhaps you are right,” said Sir John; “that was more in my way; I always took an interest in public business. When I was a boy at Eton I used to read the debates as regularly as I do now--and I have never changed my principles or turned my coat, Bertie. That is something to say after thirty years of public life. I have never seen reason to modify my opinions as so many people do. One set of principles has been enough to guide me through life, and I cannot believe that any man wants more.” “It is a very happy state of mind, Sir,” said the Rector, wondering more and more why his uncle had elected him to hear the characteristics of his wisdom. Lucy had cleverly stolen away to do her duty by the other guests, and only Lady Curtis was aware of her husband’s real meaning. She smiled within herself at his simple device to separate Lucy from a man who might put in the pretensions of a lover. But when Lucy, after stealing away from her cousin’s side, was to be seen a little while after at Durant’s, then it was Lady Curtis’s turn to look serious, and she herself moved from her own chair when she saw them talking, with a lively sense of the same need for interference which had moved her husband. When Lady Curtis joined them their conversation was simple enough, nothing to alarm any parent; but yet she remained there talking with something of her old brightness, until Lucy had left that end of the room, too, in turn, and had gone to carry consolation to old Mrs. Nuttenden in the corner, who was slightly deaf, and not amusing--with her efforts to amuse whom, nobody interfered.