Theodore accepted the offer with gratitude, and ten minutes afterwards followed the Vicar into the dining-room, where three tall, good-looking girls and two straggling youths were assembled, and where a fourth girl and another boy dropped in after the rest were seated. The board was spread with a plenteous but homely meal. A large dish of Irish stew smoked at one end of the table, and the remains of yesterday’s roast ribs of beef appeared at the other. The girls were evidently accustomed to droppers in, and received Theodore with perfect equanimity. Alicia, the eldest, carved the beef with a commanding wrist, and the third daughter, Laura, administered to his appetite with pickled walnuts and mashed potatoes. The girls were all keenly interested directly he spoke of Miss Newton. They pronounced her a dear old thing, not a bit like a governess. “We all loved her,” said Alicia: “and we are not the easiest girls to get on with, I can assure you. We have had two poor things since Sally deserted us, and we have driven them both away. And now we are enjoying an interregnum, and we hope the dear father will make it a long one.” “Did you ever hear your governess talk of the Strangways, Miss Craven?” “What, Evelyn Strangway, of Cheriton Chase? I should think we did, indeed,” cried Laura. “She had a good many prosy stories—chestnuts, we used to call them—but the Cheriton Chase stories were the most chestnutty. It was her first situation, and she was never tired of talking about it.” “Do you know if she kept up her acquaintance with Miss Strangway in after life?” asked Theodore. “I think not; at any rate, she never talked about that. She knew something about the poor girl’s later life—something very bad, I think—for she would never tell us. She used to sigh and look very unhappy if the subject was touched upon; and she used to warn us against runaway matches. As if any of us would be likely to run away from this dear old father?” protested Laura, leaning over the table to pat the Vicar’s coat-sleeve. “Why, he would let us marry chimney-sweeps rather than see us unhappy.” There was a good deal more talk about Sarah Newton, her virtues and her little peculiarities, but nothing bearing upon Theodore’s business, so he only stayed till luncheon was finished, and then wished the amiable Vicar and his family a friendly good-bye, offering to be of use to them in London at any time they might want some small business transacted there, and begging the Vicar to look him up at his chambers when he took his next holiday. “You may rely upon it I shall take you at your word,” said the parson cheerily. “You’ve no idea what a gay old dog I am when I am in town—the theatre every night, and a little bit of supper afterwards. I generally take one of my lads with me, though, to keep me out of mischief. Good-bye, and mind you don’t fall in love with Sally Newton. She’s old and ugly, but she’s one of the most fascinating women I know.”