Mr. Dusautoy acceded to the scheme devised by his wife, and measures were at once taken for engaging the curate. When Albinia went to talk the matter over at the parsonage, Lucy accompanied her; but the object of her curiosity was not in the room; and when she had heard that he was fond of drawing, and that his horses were to be kept at the King’s Head stables, the conversation drifted away, and she grew restless, and begged Mrs. Dusautoy to allow her to replenish the faded bouquets on the table. No sooner was she in the garden, than Mrs. Dusautoy put on an arch look, and lowering her voice, said, ‘Oh! it is such fun! He does despise us so immensely.’ ‘Despise--you?’ ‘He is a good, boy, faithful to his training. Now his poor mother’s axioms were, that the English are vulgar, country English more vulgar, Fanny Dusautoy the most vulgar! I wish we always as heartily accepted what we are taught.’ ‘He must be intolerable.’ ‘No, he is very condescending and patronizing to the savages. He really is fond of his uncle; and John is so much hurt it I notice his peculiarities, that I have been dying to have my laugh out.’ ‘Can Mr. Dusautoy bear with pretension?’ ‘It is not pretension, only calm faith in the lessons of his youth. Look,’ she added, becoming less personal at Lucy’s re-entrance, and pointing to a small highly-varnished oil-painting of a red terra cotta vase, holding a rose, a rhododendron before it, and half a water-melon grinning behind, newly severed by a knife. ‘Is that what people bring home from Italy now-a-days?’ said Albinia. ‘That is an original production.’ ‘Did Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy do that?’ cried Lucy. ‘Genre is his style,’ was the reply. ‘His mother was resolved he should be an amateur, and I give his master great credit.’ ‘Especially for that not being a Madonna,’ said Albinia. ‘I congratulate you on his having so safe an amusement.’ ‘Yes; it disposes of him and of the spare room. He cannot exist without an atelier.’ Just then the Vicar entered. ‘Ah! Algernon’s picture,’ began he, who had never been known to look at one, except the fat cattle in the Illustrated News. ‘What do you think of it? Has he not made a good hand of the pitcher?’ Albinia gratified him by owning that the pitcher was round; and Lucy was in perfect rapture at the ‘dear little spots’ in the rhododendron. ‘A poor way of spending a lad’s time,’ said the uncle; ‘but it is better than nothing; and I call the knife very good: I declare you might take it up,’ and he squeezed up his eyes to enhance the illusion. A slow and wide opening of the door admitted the lofty presence of Algernon Cavendish Dusautoy, with another small picture in his hand. Becoming aware of the visitors, he saluted them with a dignified movement of his head, and erecting his chin, gazed at them over it. ‘So you have brought us another picture, Algernon,’ said his uncle. ‘Mrs. Kendal has just been admiring your red jar.’