"Say four, then, at once," continued Mrs. Pynsent, "and don't confound mother and daughter; I am Pen Pynsent, and that is my daughter, Tom--Mrs. Tom, till I am underground, and out of the way." Lady Wetheral bowed with much suavity and politeness to her unrefined companion. "She had great pleasure in acknowledging her daughter Mrs. Tom Pynsent, the wife of an excellent and honourable man, standing high in the county." "To be sure--and very happy to get him. Every girl can't marry such a tight lad as Tom; as good a son as ever comforted a mother's eyes. He's none of your pimmeny fellows, like I know who; or a ranting, violent husband, like Foster Kerrison. He's good, downright Tom; and Mrs. Tom may look the best of them in the face." Tom Pynsent winked at his lady, and continued paying his _devoirs_ to the pigeon-pie. Lady Wetheral could never argue with Mrs. Pynsent, and a short silence ensued. Mrs. Pynsent's forcible mode of expressing her ideas, and her perfectly opposite views upon every subject, prevented all hope of coalition with Lady Wetheral, who could not endure abruptness, or what the world denominated "a good, downright person." Her education in high life did not enable her to shape her sentiments and actions to the tone of country society, so far removed from the atmosphere of courtly phrases; and of all her acquaintance, Mrs. Pynsent was the least suited to her tastes. She disliked "truth-telling," disagreeable people; she deprecated people who "spoke their mind" upon every point, and at all times; in short, Mrs. Pynsent was never to be endured but as the mother of Tom; and now he was secured, nothing could be more intolerable than her presence. Mrs. Pynsent took up her workbag after luncheon, and sat down to knot. Lady Wetheral politely stationed herself near her guest, and appeared occupied with her worstedwork. Anna Maria looked over Christobelle as she was busied copying a drawing for her father; and Tom Pynsent was gone to sit an hour with him in the study, and talk of Paris, till the riding-horses should make their appearance. Mrs. Tom Pynsent complimented her sister upon her first essays in landscape-painting, and prognosticated she would be the only accomplished Miss Wetheral of the family. Her mother smiled upon her. "I may certainly confess you are the 'beautiful,' my dear Anna Maria. I quite congratulate you upon the addition of a little rouge." "I'm sure I would never congratulate a daughter upon her painted face," exclaimed Mrs. Pynsent; "a woman with her cheeks raddled, is like the poor things in the street." Anna Maria blushed, but in perfect good humour with her mother-in-law. She answered the remark with a confession of its propriety, and expressed her wish it should not be made known to her husband that she _did_ employ art in improving her complexion.