“I suppose there is a certain amount of truth in this,” thought the Earl, as he sipped his cup of tea, “for here am I living up to a standard of punctilious modesty, which would even put the chaste Susannah to shame; and Heaven knows I never have been overburdened with principles, but, quite on the contrary, was oblivious of any moral attitude. It must be that the ambiante of this country is of a superior quality to that of any other.” There was a gentle knock at the door: “The Bishop of Welby has sent round to know whether your lordship would allow your women-servants to help in the finding of a suitable text for a sermon he wishes to deliver when this state has ceased? His lordship is in a great stress, being unable to lay his hand on his Bible, and finds himself at a loss to recall all the contents of the Holy Scriptures.” “By all means, Temple—I am always delighted to be of any use to the bishop, although, for my part, I regret I cannot help him in this. Can you remember any suitable text, Temple?” Temple made no reply. “I say, Temple, how do the dowagers take this kind of thing? I am rather curious to know how they manage.” The valet inquired from the upper housemaid, who very soon gathered information from her friends along the areas, and in an hour the faithful newsagent had collected a bushel of gossip. The attitude of the dowagers towards the social calamity was one of stubborn resistance and of fervent prayer. The old Lady Pendelton had said to her maid, through the keyhole, that it was only a question of time, and that with a little display of self-control, for which the race was so celebrated, they would soon pull through this ghastly experience. Some of the old ladies, whose bedrooms were contiguous to those of their daughters, knocked on the wall exhorting their virtuous progeny to persevere in the ways of the righteous and to keep up a good heart. Out-door gossips would be supplied to them: “Sarah does not mind going out,” had shouted through the wall one of the pillars of female Society, “you see, dear Evelyn, these sort of people do not possess the same quality of modesty that we do—they have to toil, not to feel.” So thought the dowager, and many more believed this to be true. What a load of injustice was settled by such an argument! When the first shock was over, and Lord Somerville had ceased wondering at a class of people who did not mind being seen in their Edenic attire, he dropped into a humorous mood, and passed in review a good many of his friends, men and women. “By Jove!” he exclaimed in a fit of laughter, “I wonder what old Bentham looks like in his skin? The Stock Exchange will be a rum circus when they all race for cash as modern gladiators! And what of Pender, and of Clavebury; and Gladys Ventnor, Arabella Chale and _tutti quanti_?”