If quiet Mr. Turner was ill at ease, the Rev. Stephen was certainly not. He bestrode the situation like a modern Colossus. The shape of his fork did not worry him, since he used it only as a humble and lowly adjunct to his knife. The presence of Mr. Turner too, neither puzzled nor pained him. In fact, he was rather pleased than otherwise to have him there, where he could talk to him before sympathetic witnesses, and make him realise how the man of the people who had a genuine call towered innately superior to mere beneficed gentility. “Beneficed gentility”--that was a good phrase, and he made a mental note of it for future use; then--the temptation was too strong--he bundled it neck and crop into the florid sentence with which he was addressing Albert--and looked at the Episcopalian to watch its effect. Mr. Turner was occupied with his javelin-shaped fork, and did not seem to hear it. Mr. Bunce suspected artifice in this, and watched the rector’s meek face for a sign of secret confusion. After a moment he said, with his full, pompous voice at its loudest and most artificial pitch:-- “Ah, Mr. Turner, this is a sad occasion!” The rector glanced up with some surprise, for he had not expected this overture, and answered “Yes, truly it is; extremely sad.” “Yet it is consoling to feel that even so sad an occasion can be converted into a means of grace, a season of spiritual solace as it were.” Mr. Turner only nodded assent to this; he felt that the whole company around the table, hired people and all, were eagerly watching him and the burly, bold-faced preacher opposite, as if they were about to engage in gladiatorial combat. But Mr. Bunce would not permit the challenge to be declined. He stroked his ochre-hued chin whisker, looked complacently around the board, and asked: “I s’pose you’ve brought your white and black riggins’ along, eh? Or don’t you wear ’em except in Church?” There was a pained look in Mr. Turner’s face; he made a little gesture toward the folding doors leading to the parlor, beyond which lay the dead, and murmured: “It will be better, will it not, to speak of these matters together, after dinner?” Again the Rev. Stephen glanced around the table, looking especially toward Miss Sabrina for approval, and remarked loftily: “There is no need of concealment here, sir. It is all in the family here. We all know that the Mother in Israel who has departed was formerly of your communion, and if she wanted to have you here, sir, at her funeral, why well and good. But the rest of this sorrowin’ family, sir, this stricken household, air Baptists--” “I declare! there’s the Burrells drivin’ into the yard, a’ready!” said Alvira, rising from her chair abruptly. “If you’re threw we better hustle these things aout, naow; you women won’t more’n have time to dress ’fore they’ll all be here.”