Sir Henry had asked his friend to luncheon, and now, after a somewhat Spartan meal of roast mutton and rice pudding, the lovers were alone in the billiard-room, Sir Henry having crept off to the stables. The table was kept rigorously covered on Sundays, in deference to the Dowager’s Sabbatarian leanings; and there was nothing for her son to do in the billiard-room, except to walk listlessly up and down and stare at some very dingy examples of the early Italian school, or to take the cues out of the rack one by one to see which of them wanted topping. “Oh, but you needn’t mind. You would be capital friends with Lady B. We all call her Lady B., because a three-syllable name is too much for anybody’s patience. I tell her she ought to drop a syllable. Lady Bur’shaw would do just as well. I suppose, though, if I were to get an invitation you could hardly be spared from—the shop,” concluded Juliet, with a laugh. “Hardly. I have to stick very close to—the shop,” replied Harrington, blushing a little at the word. “Remember what I am working for—a family practice in London and a house that you need not be ashamed to inhabit. To me that means as much as the red ribbon of the Bath means to a soldier or sailor. My ambition goes no further, unless it were to a seat in Parliament later on.” “You are a good earnest soul. Yes, of course, you must go into Parliament. In spite of all the riff-raff that has got into the House of late years, boys, Home Rulers, city-men, there is a faint flavour of distinction in the letters M.P. after a man’s name. It helps him just a little in society to be able to talk about ‘my constituents,’ and to contemplate European politics from the standpoint of the town that has elected him. Yes, you must be in the House, by-and-by, Harry.” “You told me you were tired of country house visiting,” said Harrington, who for the first time since his betrothal felt somewhat inclined to quarrel with his divinity. “So I am, heartily sick of it; and I shall rejoice when I have a snug little nest of my own in Clarges or Hertford Street. But you must admit that Medlow Court is better than this house. Behold our average Sunday! Roast mutton—rice pudding—and invincible dulness; all the servants except an under-footman gone to afternoon church, and no possibility of a cup of tea till nearly six o’clock. A cold dinner at eight, and family prayers at ten.” “What kind of a Sunday do you have at Medlow?”