Dr. Midleton was obliged to call on Mrs. Fairfax as a newcomer. He found Mrs. Harrop there, and Mrs. Fairfax asked him to step into the back parlour, into which no one in Langborough had hitherto been admitted. Gowns were tried on in the shop, the door being bolted and the blind drawn. Dr. Midleton found four little shelves of books on the cupboard by the side of the fireplace. Some were French, but most of them were English. Although it was such a small collection, his book-lover’s instinct compelled him to look at it. His eyes fell upon a _Religio Medici_, and he opened it hastily. On the fly-leaf was written “Mary Leighton, from R. L.” He had just time, before its owner entered, to replace it and to muse for an instant. “Richard Leighton of Trinity: it is not a common name, but it cannot be he—have lost sight of him for years; heard he was married, and came to no good.” He was able to watch her for a minute as she stood by the table giving some directions to her child, who was sent on an errand. In that minute he saw her as she had not been seen by anybody in Langborough. To Mrs. Bingham and her friends Mrs. Fairfax was the substratum of a body and skirt, with the inestimable advantage over a substratum of cane and padding that a scandalous history of it could be invented and believed. To Langborough men, married and single, she was a member of “the sex,” as women were called in those days, who possessed in a remarkable degree the power of exciting that quivering and warmth we have already observed. Dr. Midleton saw before him a lady, tall but delicately built, with handsome face and dark brown hair just streaked with grey, and he saw also diffused over every feature a light which in her eyes, forward-looking and earnest, became concentrated into a vivid, steady flame. The few words she spoke to her daughter were sharply cut, a delightful contrast in his ear to the dialect to which he was accustomed, distinguished by its universal vowel and suppression of the consonants. How he inwardly rejoiced to hear the sound of the second “t” in the word “distinct,” when she told her little messenger that Mr. Cobb had been “distinctly” ordered to send the coals yesterday. He remained standing until the child had gone. “Pray be seated,” she said. She went to the fireplace, leaned on the mantelpiece, and poked the fire. The attitude struck him. She was about to put some coals in the grate, but he interfered with an “Allow me,” and performed the office for her. She thanked him simply, and sat down opposite to him, facing the light. She began the conversation. “It is good of you to call on me; calling on people, especially on newcomers must be an unpleasant part of a clergyman’s duty.” “It is so, madam, sometimes—there are not many newcomers.”