"My name is Tittlebat Titmouse, at your service--and you are now in my grounds," said Titmouse, approaching him with an impudent air. "Am I really addressed by Mr. Titmouse?" inquired Dr. Tatham, somewhat incredulously. "Why, 'pon my life, I _think_ so, unless I'm changed lately; and by Jove, sir--_now_, who are you?" "I am Dr. Tatham, sir, the vicar of Yatton: I _had_ intended calling at the Hall, as a matter of courtesy; but I fear I am intruding"---- "Devil a bit--no, 'pon honor, no! you're a very good old fellow, I don't doubt!--Pray--a--is that little church outside, yours?" "It is, sir," replied Dr. Tatham, seriously and sternly; his manner completely abashing the presumptuous little coxcomb who addressed him. "Oh--well--I--I--'pon my soul, happy to see you, sir--you'll find something to eat in the Hall, I dare say"---- "Do you preach in that same little church of yours next Sunday?" inquired Mr. Yahoo, whose gross countenance had filled Dr. Tatham with unspeakable aversion. "I preach there _every_ Sunday, sir, twice," he replied gravely and distantly. "You see, sir," lisped Fitz-Snooks, "the prayers are so--so--_devilish_ long and tiresome--if you could--eh?--shorten 'em a little?"-- Dr. Tatham slowly turned away from them, and, disregarding their calls to him, though their tone of voice was greatly altered, walked back again towards the gate, and quitted the park for the first time in his life, with feelings of mortal repugnance. On reaching his little study, he sat down in his old armchair, and fell into a sad revery, which lasted more than an hour; and then he rose, and went to see the old blind stag-hound fed--and looked at it, licking his hands, with feelings of unusual tenderness; and the doctor shed a tear or two as he patted its smooth gray old head.