Susan laughs merrily. She is in high spirits. All is going so well, and even Lady Millbank has praised the tea-cakes—Lady Millbank, who never praises anything! But to-day Lady Millbank has changed her tune. Perhaps no one had been so astonished as she, to see all the Park people here to-day in this quiet old garden. She had been asked to meet them, of course, being a friend and distant relation of the Rector’s; but she had dreamed of seeing only Lady Forster, for half an hour or so, as a concession to her brother’s parish priest, and now—now—here they all are! All these smart people, who had refused to go to her only the day before yesterday! Now, horrid snob that she is, she goes quite out of her way to be nice to the Barrys. ‘A disgraceful list, indeed!’ says Susan, laughing down into Crosby’s eyes. Oh, what pretty eyes hers are! ‘You acknowledge it, then?’ ‘Certainly. It is a list so bare that one must be ashamed of it. Not even one name!’ ‘What about James, the redoubtable?’ ‘Oh, if you are going to be stupid!’ says she; and, rising with a pretty show of scorn, she leaves him. It is not entirely her scorn of him, however, that leads her to this drastic step; it is an appealing glance from Betty, who is sitting near her aunt, looking perplexed in the extreme. There is cause for perplexity. Next to Miss Barry sits the poet! Unfortunately Miss Barry has heard a great deal about this young man and all his works, and plainly considers it her duty to live up to him, if possible, during his visit to the Rectory. She has now put on quite a literary air and her best spectacles, and is holding forth on literature generally, with a view to impressing him. She succeeds beyond her expectations. The great Jones, who is reclining beside her in an artistic attitude, becomes by degrees smitten into stone, so great, so wondrously surprising, are some of her utterances. Through all his astonishment, however, he holds on to the artistic pose. Having struck it with the intention of conquering Susan, he refuses to alter it until, at all events, she has had a good look. It may be a long time, poor girl! before she will get the chance of seeing anything like it again. ‘What’s the matter with his leg?’ asks Dom, who has just come up, in a whisper to Betty. ‘It’s got turned round, hasn’t it?’ ‘It looks broken,’ says Betty. ‘But it’s all right. It’s a way he has with it. For goodness’ sake, Dom, stop auntie, if you can.’ But auntie is enjoying herself tremendously, and now, seeing her audience greatly increased, and the poet evidently much struck, her voice rises higher, and she beams on all around her. ‘My two favourite authors,’ she is now saying, ‘are—and I’m sure you will agree with me, dear Lady Forster, and you too, Mr. Jones: your opinion’—with alarming flattery—‘is indeed important—my two favourite authors are dear Wilkie Trollope and Anthony Collins!’