Regulation Act”—“Ten thousand acres strictly preserved.” The old lord was leering pleasantly and muttering to himself: “Some fine gals here. Like the looks of that filly with the pink hat. Ought to see more of her. She’d give Lotty points.” The pomp swept slowly across the grass: the archdeacon had got hold of Mr. Dixon, and they were discussing the misdeeds of some clergyman in the rural deanery. “I can scarce credit it,” said Mr. Dixon. “Oh, I assure you, there can be no doubt. We have witnesses. There can be no question that there was a procession at Llanfihangel on the Sunday before Easter; the choir and minister went round the church, carrying palm branches in their hands.” “Very shocking.” “It has distressed the bishop. Martin is a hard-working man enough, and all that, but those sort of things can’t be tolerated. The bishop told me that he had set his face against processions.” “Quite right: the bishop is perfectly right. Processions are unscriptural.” “It’s the thin end of the wedge, you know, Dixon.” “Exactly. I have always resisted anything of the kind here.” “Right. _Principiis obsta_, you know. Martin is so _imprudent_. There’s a _way_ of doing things.” The “scriptural” procession led by Lord Beamys broke up when the stalls were reached, and gathered round the nobleman as he declared the bazaar open. Lucian was sitting on a garden-seat, a little distance off, looking dreamily before him. And all that he saw was a swarm of flies clustering and buzzing about a lump of tainted meat that lay on the grass. The spectacle in no way interrupted the harmony of his thoughts, and soon after the opening of the bazaar he went quietly away, walking across the fields in the direction of the ancient mounds he desired to inspect.