“I don’t know if I dare claim that distinction, Mrs. Porter,” answered Cuthbert, in his cheerful resonant voice. “This is my first visit to the Chase; and if Lord Cheriton has received me with open arms it is only because I am his kinsman’s friend.” Theodore introduced the stranger to the Kempsters, who welcomed him eagerly, as one who came fraught with the interests and excitements of the outer world. “May I ask if our man has got in for Southwark?” demanded Mr. Kempster. “His lordship would be sure to get a telegram after the polling.” “I blush to say that I forgot all about the election, and didn’t ask after the telegram,” replied Cuthbert. “When you say ‘our man,’ you mean——” “The Conservative candidate. I conclude you belong to us.” “Again I blush to say I don’t belong to you the least little bit. I am an advanced Liberal.” Mr. Kempster sighed, with a sigh that was almost a groan. “A destroyer and disestablisher of everything that has made the glory of England since the days of the Heptarchy,” he said, plaintively. “Well, yes, there have been a good many false gods toppled over, and a good many groves of Baal cut down, since the Saxon Kings ruled over the Seven Kingdoms. You don’t want Baal and the rest of them stuck up again, do you, Mr. Kempster?” “Mr. Ramsay, there are times and seasons when I would to God I could wake up in the morning and find myself a subject of King Egbert. Yes, when I see the rising tide of anarchy—the advancing legions of unbelief—the Upas Tree of sensual science,” said Kempster, slipping airily from metaphor to metaphor, “I would gladly lay hold upon all that was most rigid and uncompromising among the bulwarks of the past. I would belong to the Church of Wolsey and A’Becket. I would lie prostrate before the altar at which St. Augustine was celebrant. I would grovel at the feet of Dunstan.” “Ah, Mr. Kempster, we can’t go back. That’s the plague of it, for romantic minds like yours. I am afraid we have done with the picturesque in religion and in everything else. We are children of light—or the fierce white light of science and common sense. We may regret the scenic darkness of mediævalism, but we cannot go back to it. The clouds of ignorance and superstition have rolled away, and we stand out in the open, in the searching light of truth. We know what we are, and whom we serve.” At Mrs. Porter’s invitation they all followed her into the cottage parlour, where the tea-table stood ready, and much more elegantly appointed than that modest board which the curate’s wife was wont to spread for her friends. Here there appeared both old china and old silver, and the tea which Mrs. Porter’s slender white hands dispensed was of as delicate an aroma as that choice Indian pekoe which Theodore occasionally enjoyed in Lady Cheriton’s boudoir.