It was somewhat against the grain, and not a little to his own inconvenience, that John Beacham was devoting a day to amuse his womankind on that eventful twenty-fourth of July. Danescourt was a good five-and-twenty miles from the Paddocks. In little more than half-an-hour the travellers could be conveyed by rail from Switcham to Gawthorpe; the latter place being the nearest town and station--distant about three miles--from Danescourt. But Mrs. Beacham unfortunately entertained, amongst other immutable prejudices, a very decided one against steam locomotion. As a rule she was not greatly troubled with “nerves;” but the exception was when, by some extraordinary concatenation of circumstances, she found herself whirled along in an express-train, gasping for breath, and ejaculating piteous appeals for protection to that Power which, under the ordinary circumstances of everyday life, we are all of us so given both to ignore and to forget. It was a standing joke (when that lady was not present) that old Mrs. Beacham invariably began to say her prayers the moment the pace of the train by which she was travelling commenced to accelerate. Indeed, so patent and unmistakable were her sufferings, that John--well-to-do, open-handed John--who, “thank goodness, was not obliged to look twice at a shilling before he spent it,” and who was unwilling to turn a day’s pleasure into one of penance, decided to drive his mother and his pretty wife in the new “trap;” services of that famous horse “Jolly Boy,” an animal who could “trot his nine mile an hour, sir, without turning a hair,” being put into requisition on the occasion. As a matter of course, her own personal dignity being concerned in the matter, Mrs. Beacham had required some pressing before she allowed herself to be persuaded to attend the gala scene at Danescourt. _She_ was not wanted, the old lady declared, in such gay places as that. At _her_ age she was better at home minding the house; while other people, who _were_ fond of gadding about, took their pleasure in Lord Guernsey’s park. It was rather provoking, Honor thought, to see her stepmother _poser en victime_, when she, the younger woman, was perfectly well aware that had Mrs. Beacham been sixteen instead of sixty-five, she could hardly have looked forward with greater satisfaction than was in fact the case, to that day’s long-promised “outing.” That _she_, Honor, did not press her stepmother to do violence to her feelings by condescending to form one of the little party to Danescourt was a fruitful source of aggravation; and when the old lady _did_ eventually take her place in the front-seat of the “trap,” attired in a wonderful new bonnet from Leigh, and a Paisley shawl of many colours--her own choice, and worn for the first time that day--her temper could not, with justice, be said to be above its average standard of good humour and composure.