"You have never seen Sir Rupert?" asked Toby, politely. Mrs. Belswin started, drew her handkerchief--a flimsy feminine thing of lace and cambric--across her dry lips, and laughed in an embarrassed fashion as she replied-- "No, I have not seen him; but, of course, Kaituna has told me all about him." "Ah!" said the vicar, eyeing the rosy bubbles flashing in his glass, "I remember Rupert Pethram very well before he went out to New Zealand. He was a gay, light-hearted boy; but now, alas! tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis." "I can't fancy my father ever having been gay and light-hearted," cried Kaituna, doubtfully. "Ever since I can remember him he has been so grave and solemn." "Trouble! trouble!" sighed the vicar; "it changes us all." Mrs. Belswin, affecting to arrange the wreath at her breast, darted a lightning glance at the old man from under her long lashes. "I wonder if Rupert told you anything," she thought, rapidly. "Bah! what do I care if he did? This fool can do me no harm. There is only one man I'm afraid of meeting--Rupert Pethram himself. Well, perhaps I shall not need to meet him." She smiled cruelly as she thought of the harm she proposed to do her unfortunate husband, and listened idly to Mr. Gelthrip, who was holding forth in his usual dogmatic style on the good which a moneyed man like Sir Rupert could do to the parish of Deswarth. "I hope, Miss Pethram," he said, turning to Kaituna, "that you will urge upon your father the advisability of throwing open the picture gallery at Thornstream to the villagers, in order to encourage a taste for art." "But they know nothing about art. The _Illustrated London News_ and the _Graphic_ form their idea of pictures." "They can learn, Mr. Clendon; they can learn," replied the curate, easily. "I should like them to appreciate the old masters." "Egad, it's a thing I could never do," cried Toby, flippantly. "I much prefer the modern painters." "You are a Philistine, sir." "Humph!" said Toby, under his breath, "and this Samson is slaughtering me with the jawbone of an ass." "Then music," pursued Gelthrip, waxing eloquent; "a little Wagner." "Very little," said Archie, slily; "all chords and no melody." "I don't quite understand you," remarked Tommy, addressing Mr. Gelthrip with a demure smile. "You believe in Doctor Watts and Richard Wagner. Isn't it rather difficult to reconcile the two things?" "Not at all, Miss Valpy. Wagner is understandable by the meanest mind." "Meaning himself," whispered Archie, with a laugh. "The fact is," observed Mr. Clendon, with mock solemnity, "that when my worthy friend can get our labourers to descant learnedly on Claude Lorraine, Michael Angelo, and Titian, read and appreciate George Meredith's novels--of whom, Tobias, I have heard you speak--and understand the advanced school of music, of which I myself know nothing, he will have accomplished his life's work." "It would be a worthy career for a man," said Gelthrip, energetically.