Though Mr Primrose was what in ordinary language is called an independent man, yet he could not but feel reverence for greatness; and finding that the gentleman with whom he was conversing was a person of some consequence, he was desirous of knowing who it was. This desire was but slightly hinted, and immediately the great agricultural luminary gratified Mr Primrose’s laudable thirst after knowledge by saying: “My name, sir, is Kipperson. Kipperson, sir, of Smatterton.” It was very excusable that Mr Primrose, who had been so many years out of England, should not be familiar with the name, and should not be aware that he was addressing the celebrated agriculturist, Kipperson of Smatterton. Mr Kipperson himself was so modest a man that he did not choose to say that he was the celebrated one of that name, but he took especial care to let it be understood indirectly and circuitously that he was a person of some importance in the world. And now it was very natural that the great agriculturist should be desirous of knowing the name and designation of his fellow traveller, and to ascertain that was also no great difficulty. As soon as he found that he was conversing with the father of Penelope Primrose, he broke out into the most eloquent panegyrics on the character, moral, intellectual, and professional, of the late rector of the parish, and congratulated Mr Primrose in having had the good fortune to confide his daughter to the care of so superlatively excellent a man. “But, sir,” as suddenly recollecting himself, “perhaps you will do me the honor to walk in and sit down under my humble roof; for I can give you the latest information concerning Miss Primrose. It is very singular that I should have travelled up to London with the daughter and down from London with the father.” At that singularity, or at his own penetration in discovering the curious coincidence, Mr Kipperson smiled. Mr Primrose accepted the invitation and walked into Mr Kipperson’s house, which was near the place where they had met. It was a piece of affectation in Mr Kipperson to call his place of abode a humble roof. True, it was not so magnificent as Smatterton castle, but its owner had been at great pains and expense to make it look quite the reverse of humble. That which had been a productive little garden was converted into a lawn. Those barns, piggeries, and outhouses, in which was deposited no small part of the owner’s wealth, had been gracefully, but ungratefully, planted out. French windows supplied the place of old-fashioned casements, and green verandahs gave Peter Kipperson’s farm-house as much as possible the air of an Oriental palace.