Mr. Ely was a tall, dark-haired, distinguished-looking man of three-and-thirty. By the laity of Milby and its neighbourhood he was regarded as a man of quite remarkable powers and learning, who must make a considerable sensation in London pulpits and drawing-rooms on his occasional visit to the metropolis; and by his brother clergy he was regarded as a discreet and agreeable fellow. Mr. Ely never got into a warm discussion; he suggested what might be thought, but rarely said what he thought himself; he never let either men or women see that he was laughing at them, and he never gave any one an opportunity of laughing at _him_. In one thing only he was injudicious. He parted his dark wavy hair down the middle; and as his head was rather flat than otherwise, that style of coiffure was not advantageous to him. Mr. Farquhar, though not a parishioner of Mr. Ely’s, was one of his warmest admirers, and thought he would make an unexceptionable son-in-law, in spite of his being of no particular ‘family’. Mr. Farquhar was susceptible on the point of ‘blood’--his own circulating fluid, which animated a short and somewhat flabby person, being, he considered, of very superior quality. ‘By the by,’ he said, with a certain pomposity counteracted by a lisp, ‘what an ath Barton makth of himthelf, about that Bridmain and the Counteth, ath she callth herthelf. After you were gone the other evening, Mithith Farquhar wath telling him the general opinion about them in the neighbourhood, and he got quite red and angry. Bleth your thoul, he believth the whole thtory about her Polish huthband and hith wonderful ethcapeth; and ath for her--why, he thinkth her perfection, a woman of motht refined feelingth, and no end of thtuff.’ Mr. Ely smiled. ‘Some people would say our friend Barton was not the best judge of refinement. Perhaps the lady flatters him a little, and we men are susceptible. She goes to Shepperton Church every Sunday--drawn there, let us suppose, by Mr. Barton’s eloquence.’ ‘Pshaw,’ said Mr. Farquhar: ‘Now, to my mind, you have only to look at that woman to thee what she ith--throwing her eyth about when she comth into church, and drething in a way to attract attention. I should thay, she’th tired of her brother Bridmain, and looking out for another brother with a thtronger family likeneth. Mithith Farquhar ith very fond of Mithith Barton, and ith quite dithtrethed that she should athothiate with thuch a woman, tho she attacked him on the thubject purpothly. But I tell her it’th of no uthe, with a pig-headed fellow like him. Barton’th well-meaning enough, but _tho_ contheited. I’ve left off giving him my advithe.’ Mr. Ely smiled inwardly and said to himself, ‘What a punishment!’ But to Mr. Farquhar he said, ‘Barton might be more judicious, it must be confessed.’ He was getting tired, and did not want to develop the subject.