“I say anything disrespectful of Dr Kenn? Heaven forbid! But I am not bound to respect a libellous bust of him. I think Kenn one of the finest fellows in the world. I don’t care much about the tall candlesticks he has put on the communion-table, and I shouldn’t like to spoil my temper by getting up to early prayers every morning. But he’s the only man I ever knew personally who seems to me to have anything of the real apostle in him,—a man who has eight hundred a-year and is contented with deal furniture and boiled beef because he gives away two-thirds of his income. That was a very fine thing of him,—taking into his house that poor lad Grattan, who shot his mother by accident. He sacrifices more time than a less busy man could spare, to save the poor fellow from getting into a morbid state of mind about it. He takes the lad out with him constantly, I see.” “That is beautiful,” said Maggie, who had let her work fall, and was listening with keen interest. “I never knew any one who did such things.” “And one admires that sort of action in Kenn all the more,” said Stephen, “because his manners in general are rather cold and severe. There’s nothing sugary and maudlin about him.” “Oh, I think he’s a perfect character!” said Lucy, with pretty enthusiasm. “No; there I can’t agree with you,” said Stephen, shaking his head with sarcastic gravity. “Now, what fault can you point out in him?” “He’s an Anglican.” “Well, those are the right views, I think,” said Lucy, gravely. “That settles the question in the abstract,” said Stephen, “but not from a parliamentary point of view. He has set the Dissenters and the Church people by the ears; and a rising senator like myself, of whose services the country is very much in need, will find it inconvenient when he puts up for the honour of representing St Ogg’s in Parliament.” “Do you really think of that?” said Lucy, her eyes brightening with a proud pleasure that made her neglect the argumentative interests of Anglicanism. “Decidedly, whenever old Mr Leyburn’s public spirit and gout induce him to give way. My father’s heart is set on it; and gifts like mine, you know”—here Stephen drew himself up, and rubbed his large white hands over his hair with playful self-admiration—“gifts like mine involve great responsibilities. Don’t you think so, Miss Tulliver?” “Yes,” said Maggie, smiling, but not looking up; “so much fluency and self-possession should not be wasted entirely on private occasions.” “Ah, I see how much penetration you have,” said Stephen. “You have discovered already that I am talkative and impudent. Now superficial people never discern that, owing to my manner, I suppose.” “She doesn’t look at me when I talk of myself,” he thought, while his listeners were laughing. “I must try other subjects.”