It was a standing rule at The Warren that Thursday afternoon was a sort of special day. On Thursdays it was the custom to turn up at the squire's garden for afternoon tea. The men were always in a minority, for most of the gilded youth of King's Warren were of too timid a nature to put in an appearance. Occasionally young Mr. Wurzel, dragged thither by his bride-elect, the sentimental Miss Grains, would come, but he felt like a fish out of water, seldom opened his mouth, and passed most of his time in gazing, with respectful admiration, upon Miss Lucy Warrender; an annoying fact which did not escape the observation of his mother's sharp old eyes, and which caused considerable indignation in the troubled breast of the brewer's daughter. The vicar's curate was, of course, a standing dish; other curates from adjacent parishes, too, would appear and disappear, but they met with little encouragement, for Miss Warrender didn't affect a liking for parsons. Even the short-sighted High-church deacon from the next parish, who spoke of himself as a "Celibate," and "vowed to heaven" and habitually got himself up to resemble a Roman Catholic priest, failed to move her worldly little heart; the Reverend Hopley Porter would have been more in her line, mild curates were not at all in her way. The Misses Sleek, too, freely availed themselves of their _entrée_ to The Warren, and those young ladies were ever on their best behaviour. They were not bad-looking girls, and though both rather fast, while at The Warren they affected a demure primness which made them not unattractive. They patiently submitted to the continual snubbings of the vicar's wife, and to the little sarcasms with which they were occasionally favoured by Miss Warrender. They humbled themselves in dust and ashes to Miss Hood, and seldom made any reference to that patient money-grubber, their papa. With effusive affection they always addressed the squire as "dear Mr. Warrender," and sought favour in Georgie Haggard's eyes by an ecstatic worship of the little Lucius. "Don't you think you could manage it for us, Miss Hood? It's not a formal affair, and we are so anxious it should be a success. We shall have none but nice people, and it is so terribly dull at The Park: we shall only allow pa to ask three of his friends, and they are quite old gentlemen. I really couldn't ask dear Mr. Warrender myself, nor could Connie, and we are both terribly afraid of Lucy." So spoke the elder Miss Sleek in appealing tones. "Do help us, Miss Hood," chimed in the younger sister. "My dear, I don't see why you should be afraid of Miss Warrender," said good-natured Miss Hood, giving that young lady her full title.